by Sandra Hill
“Irresistibility?” She shook her head at his hopelessness. “Don’t waste your time on me. I’m practically a nun.”
“I thought they kicked you out.”
“They did not kick me out. I’m merely taking a sabbatical. And I’ll still be helping with the rescue missions.”
Fleur had gotten to know Aaron fairly well over the past year as he flew them on some of their rescue missions. There was no repeat of a strip club rescue, but they had gone into several brothels in Mexico, the United States, Guatemala, Panama. Twice, they’d gone into jungles where terrorists were holding some kidnapped girls that they did not want any longer, or would rather have cash for than their services. And often they just swooped them up off the streets.
She looked out the window of the plane now and noticed that they were circling over the bayou region. What a sight that was! Like a lace tablecloth, or a spiderweb, the brown streams of varying width twisted and turned on themselves forming ever-changing patterns through the emerald land mass. For the first time in like forever, she felt a tug at her heartstrings, as if she were coming home.
“Do you think that’s a good idea? Continuing to work against sex traffickers as a layperson? Could be dangerous. I mean, you had some protection behind the convent walls if the traffickers suspected the Magdas’ involvement. But you’ll have zippo now, except for a senior citizen roommate who may, or may not, have a license to carry,” Aaron remarked.
“You should talk. I hear you’re having troubles of your own. Legal ones.”
He nodded. “The FAA is pissed about my crossing US borders. Sorry. Is pissed a word that offends nuns?”
She ignored his teasing. “And . . . ?”
“Some lunatics at the FBI think I’m the one involved in sex trafficking.”
“Why would they think that?”
“I’ve been seen with young girls getting in my plane.”
“Can’t you just tell them what you’re doing?”
He shook his head. “Steps on too many toes. It looks like I—we—are saying that the feds and local police aren’t doing their jobs.”
“They’re not. At least not enough. Or fast enough. Too much bureaucracy. There’s enough work for all of us.”
He nodded. “During the year I’ve been involved, seventy kidnapped girls have been rescued. That’s not even a dent in the huge number unrescued, but I figure those are seventy girls who might have been lost in the underbelly of several countries by the time officials slogged along regular channels. Let law enforcement go after the source of all these kidnappings. Like you said, there’s enough work for everyone.”
She nodded. “Still . . . you take a risk every time you take off with new ‘cargo.’ Are you worried about being arrested?”
“No. Well, a little. But my half brother Luc is covering my back. He’s a lawyer.”
“I know who Lucien LeDeux is. Everyone in the South has heard of his courtroom antics. Don’t they call him the Swamp Solicitor?”
“They do. He’s that good.”
“You’re grinning at me again.”
“I can’t help it. I keep picturing you and Tante Lulu as roomies.”
Fleur had spent the past week reconciling herself to this exile from the convent. She figured a few months spent helping the old lady organize her folk healing recipes, perhaps even collating them into book format, would occupy her time. And taking notes on her supposedly outrageous history might even be interesting. After that, Fleur could return to the convent. Piece of cake!
“It won’t be that bad,” she told Aaron.
He grinned some more. “Wanna bet?”
As the plane landed, then rolled at an increasingly slower rate down the runway, then to a full stop, she saw her welcoming committee standing beside a vintage lavender convertible. A little old lady wobbled back and forth on wedge sandals as she used both hands to hold on to what looked like a Farrah Fawcett wig, which almost blew off in the wind. Her tiny body, with a surprisingly curvaceous, probably fake bootie, was stuffed into tight pink spandex shorts. On top was a T-shirt with cleavage (probably also fake) that proclaimed in glittery letters, “Bayou Bimbo.”
Standing next to her was a real bimbo. Well, the self-proclaimed “bimbo with class.” It was Charmaine LeDeux-Lanier, Tante Lulu’s niece or something, who owned a chain of beauty salons. She often dressed like a hooker and made deals like a Wall Street guru, according to an Internet business magazine article Fleur had once read. In fact, as a kid, Fleur had idolized Charmaine when she’d won the Miss Louisiana pageant. At forty-something, Charmaine was still hotter than Louisiana asphalt in a body-hugging, sleeveless red jumpsuit, with a baby bump the size of a watermelon.
Aaron didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.
Chapter Two
She took networking to a whole new level . . .
After handing Fleur off to Tante Lulu and Charmaine, Aaron headed directly for his lawyer’s office in downtown Houma.
He was still grinning over the stunned expression on Fleur’s face as she’d crawled into the back seat of Lillian, the name given to the old lady’s big honking pale purple 1960s convertible. Everyone on the bayou recognized the vehicle when it came barreling (or crawling) down the highway, especially when the notorious Tante Lulu could be seen propped up on several pillows behind the steering wheel.
“Hey, Aaron, glad you could stop by,” Luc said when he entered the office, which was located on the ground floor of an old Victorian-style building. Luc’s secretary, Mildred Guidry, who was on the phone, had waved him through.
“Any news?” Aaron asked.
“I have some meetings set up for next week. Most important, with the FAA for Wednesday at eleven a.m. in their Nawleans office. They want you to bring a list of every flight you’ve taken in the past five years, whether on your own, for Remy’s company, or for the company you owned back in Alaska.”
“Easy enough to get the Alaska records. Aunt Mel put those in storage. She’s here at the plantation waiting for the twins to be born, but I can ask a friend to go into the unit to find them.”
Aunt Mel was Melanie Yutu. She’d been his mother’s longtime partner, as in gay couple, and his business partner, as well, in Alaska Air Shipping.
“Great. It’s always good to bury them in paperwork. To some of these desk jockeys, paper is still king.”
“And Remy keeps meticulous files. So, I know those will be easily accessible, too. On computer. Hell, I can print those out, too, if necessary.”
Remy’s claim to fame, according to women of the bayou, anyhow, was his exceedingly good looks. His shame (in his eyes, only) was that he’d been badly burned in an explosion during Desert Storm when he’d been flying Chinooks over enemy territory. The burn scars covered one side of his body only, head to toe. People who knew him hardly noticed, but Remy was self-conscious, even after all this time.
Aaron had been in the Air Force, too, but a few years later than his half brother, being quite a bit younger. Aaron had been working for Remy the past couple years, until he could decide what he wanted to do, exactly. Unfortunately, or fortunately, Aaron had been distracted from those goals this past year by his outside activities with the Street Judes.
“Is Remy still pissed at you?” Luc asked, calling him back from his rambling thoughts.
“Not so much since I explained the situation. He was more upset that I didn’t tell him ahead of time so he could help. And, actually, his main concern these days is Rachel and their upcoming new baby.”
“Pff! Don’t I know it? Sylvie is waddling around like an oversize duck with all her excess weight, alternately cursing me, the doctor who did my vasectomy, and Tante Lulu.”
Aaron couldn’t help but smile. All the LeDeux men had become suddenly virile about eight months ago when Tante Lulu had put a curse on them all. Well, not a curse because, of course, a baby could never be a curse, but a St. Jude wish of hers. Everyone on the bayou—hell, everyone in Louisiana—knew that St. Jude,
the patron of hopeless cases, was Tante Lulu’s favorite saint. Supposedly, she’d been praying one day and happened to mention to the saint, “Wouldn’t it be nice if there were more babies in the family?” And, voilà! Mass pregnancies. A classic case of be careful what you wish for.
The odd thing was, everyone thought the “curse” had worked last summer. But then it turned out the next month that the LeDeux women weren’t pregnant, after all. The following month they were. Next month they weren’t. By Christmas, though, it was a done deal. Tante Lulu claimed it was Saint Jude having a bit of fun with them. Everyone blamed her.
“Speaking of Tante Lulu, I saw her a little while ago. She came to the airport with Charmaine to pick up Fleur.”
“Speaking of which,” Luc began, “who is this girl that Tante Lulu is taking in? I don’t like the idea of some stranger just moving in.”
“First of all, Fleur Gaudet is a woman, not a girl. About thirty years old, I would guess. And—”
Luc raised his brows at that. “A thirty-year-old novice nun?”
“Not anymore.”
“That’s another thing. Kicked out of the nunnery? For what?”
“She was never a nun, exactly. More like an aspiring nun. And she wasn’t exactly kicked out. She’s just taking a break.” A permanent one, if I have any say in the matter.
“‘A shady lady, bless her heart, who’s not shady anymore.’ That’s how Tante Lulu described her. You can see why I have questions. I don’t want this person turning my aunt’s cottage into a cathouse.”
Aaron burst out laughing. Their “aunt” did have a way with words. And, in fact, Louise Rivard wasn’t really an aunt to any of them. A great-aunt or something to Luc, Remy, and René through her great-niece Adèle, their mother, but more like an honorary aunt to the rest of them: him and Dan, John, Charmaine, Simone, and a whole slew of other LeDeuxs. The common element being their horndog father, Valcour LeDeux.
“Don’t worry about Fleur turning Tante Lulu’s cottage into a brothel. She hates men.” Me, in particular. But not for long, if I have any say in the matter. “I’m not sure about Tante Lulu’s ‘shady lady’ reference, anyhow. Maybe by ‘shady’ she’s referring to one of the Judes/Magdas missions that took place in a strip joint. No, I am not going to elaborate.”
Luc didn’t look convinced. “Still . . . what do we know about her?”
“Trust me, the old lady is safe with Fleur. It’s more a question of whether Fleur is safe with Tante Lulu. Back to Wednesday’s meeting. The list of my flights related to the sex traffickers . . . should I be totally honest, or fudge, or go all ‘I refuse to answer on the grounds, etc.’?”
“Make an honest list, for me. Then let’s sit down and lay out a plan.”
“It might be easier if I just join the priesthood, an official member of St. Jude’s Street Apostles, and claim religious immunity. If there is such a thing.”
Luc leaned back in his chair and grinned. “Are you ready for celibacy?”
“Hell, no!”
“That wouldn’t work anyhow. No way you could become a priest in less than a week. And, by the way, you’ve got to lie low for the next couple months, while you’re in the feds’ crosshairs. No more unregistered flights.”
Aaron nodded, but he wasn’t so sure he could avoid involvement with the Street Judes. There was an upcoming “shipment” of girls coming into Mexico from Syria, of all places, that he might not be able to ignore. Snake wasn’t always available to fly.
Thankfully, Luc was off on another tangent, saving him having to give an actual promise. “But here’s another thought. Why not talk it over with Tante Lulu?”
“Are you crazy?”
“Really. The old lady knows everyone. Maybe she could pull a few strings. She’s a friend, or a friend of a friend, of some really powerful people.”
“As powerful as the FAA?”
“Hah! Higher than that.”
Later that day Aaron was driving his new silver pickup truck home, a replacement for his previous truck which had been mangled by a hit-and-run driver outside the Swamp Shack one night. As he drove along, he watched the Saint Jude bobblehead do its thing over the bumpy rural road. Half in jest, he said, out loud, “So, Saint Jude, think you could help me get out from Uncle Sam’s radar?”
He could swear he heard a voice in his head answer, As you wish.
So, in for a penny, in for a pound, he added, “And I could use a little help with a certain lady.”
The voice in his head was silent.
Some memoirs might best be left unwritten . . .
Fleur was settling in at Tante Lulu’s little two-bedroom cottage on Bayou Black. She’d even made peace with the old lady’s pet alligator, Useless, by feeding it a favorite treat, Cheez Doodles. Maybe this “sabbatical” from the convent wouldn’t be too bad.
Crushed shells filled the driveway and the neat flower beds of the dwelling, which was painted a cheerful yellow with green shutters and a green metal roof. It had originally been built in the old Cajun style of bousillage, according to Tante Lulu, which meant half logs with a chinking of fuzzy mud, a mixture of clay, Spanish moss, and crushed clam shells. The Cajuns did love their clam shells. Later, the structure had been stuccoed over and painted.
A stretch of lawn led down from the back porch, with its three rocking chairs, to the slow-moving, narrow stream. Midway, there was a fig-laden tree and a Saint Jude birdbath statue. Off to one side was a vegetable garden enclosed by wire mesh fencing to keep out the bayou critters. On the other side of the house was a detached garage, which seemed hardly big enough for Tante Lulu’s monster car.
Inside the cottage it was almost as if there were a third person present. Saint Jude. Every room was graced with some sign of Tante Lulu’s favorite saint. Saint Jude pictures on the walls and Saint Jude statues on practically every side table. In the kitchen, a Saint Jude tablecloth and napkins, fridge magnets, and mugs. A Saint Jude night light in the hall. A Saint Jude crocheted toilet paper holder in the bathroom. (I kid you not!) There was even a Saint Jude wind chime out on the porch, which would probably drive Fleur crazy at night with the bayou breezes.
Tante Lulu had insisted on feeding her right off, after Charmaine left for the ranch where her husband was planning a barbecue for that evening. Besides, he worried about her being so far from home when she was so far advanced in her pregnancy, Charmaine told them.
While Fleur had chowed down on the most delicious gumbo and the lightest biscuits and a glass of iced sweet tea in a kitchen fitted out with a vintage chrome and Formica dinette set with vinyl-covered chairs, Tante Lulu asked, “Didja ever meet Charmaine’s husband, Rusty Lanier?”
Fleur had shaken her head, her mouth full.
“Whoo-ee! That boy is so handsome he cain’t even walk down the street without women doin’ a double take. ’Course he’s a cowboy. And a Cajun. A double whammy.”
Fleur had thought of Aaron then, who was Cajun, and dressed like a cowboy. And, yeah, he had the “Whoo-ee!” factor down pat. Not that any of that mattered to her. At least, it hadn’t for a long, long time. Not that she would mention any of that to Tante Lulu, who fancied herself some kind of celestial matchmaker.
Now Fleur was in a room off the kitchen, the pantry, which had been converted into Tante Lulu’s work space for her traiteur business. A traiteur was a folk healer in Cajun land. A butcher-block table in the center held a mortar and pestle. Labeled bottles and jars and baskets filled all the floor-to-ceiling shelving units around the room. Everything from recognizable herbs, like rosemary or thyme or St. John’s Wort, to animal parts floating in murky liquids. Frog tongues, gator teeth, pigeon livers, snake hearts, bull bollocks, porcupine quills.
Fascinated, Fleur asked, “How did you get involved in folk healing?”
“I learned at my MawMaw and my mother’s knees. In the old days, nothin’ was written down. Jist passed down amongst the women in the family. Later, some receipts—thass what they called ’em back then�
�were kept, ’cept it was hard ta tell what some of the measurements meant. Like, how much is a passel of swamp grass, or a dollop of skunk oil? I’ve been tryin’ fer years ta organize it all inta book form. I’ve had help, but never quite finished. Somethin’ allus comes up.”
“Well, I can certainly help with that. Do you have any notes?”
Tante Lulu handed her a bulging old rent receipt book with loose sheets hanging out and a shoebox overflowing with scraps of paper. Fleur glanced at what was written on the back of a Boudreaux’s General Store receipt. “Heat Rash. Boil pig brain. Mix rendered fat w/ground gator tongue and mashed okra. Grated lemon peel to hide stink.”
Okaaay, looks like I have my work cut out for me. But that’s okay. It might be interesting. “I think all these remedies would be enhanced if you had a provenance with them.”
“Prava-what?”
“Provenance. The history of a recipe. Where you got it from. Perhaps a funny story about gathering the ingredients. That kind of thing.”
“I get it. Like the time my MawMaw and my Aunt Tildy almost drowned in the swamp when their pirogue was overturned by a gator. The mama gator dint want them harvestin’ any of her eggs fer their hemorrhoid salve.”
“Exactly,” Fleur said with a hidden roll of her eyes.
“And, by the way, yer not the first nun, or ex-nun, or almost-nun, I’ve been associated with. I’ll hafta introduce ya to my friend Grace O’Brien who lived here with me fer a spell. She’s an ex-nun who also happened ta be a professional poker player and a treasure hunter. She was helpin’ me ta organize my herbs, too, but then she met Angel Sabato, and the Thunderbolt of Love hit her, and wham! Now, she’s busy raising babies. I ’spect you two will have a lot in common.”
