Blue Bayou

by JoAnn Ross

  The only time Lowell had ever touched her was in bed. Then finally, nearly two years ago, he'd stopped touching her all together. She thought that the fact it had been six months before she'd noticed the absence of any sex said a great deal about her marriage.

  “The place isn't exactly ready for company. But how about I give you the grand tour? Show you how things are progressin'.”

  Damn. Trust him to dangle the one bit of bait she found almost impossible to refuse. Dani hesitated, curiosity warring with the primal, survivalist urge to run. She didn't trust him. Didn't like him. Her head knew that. Her heart knew it, as well. But for some unfathomable reason, her body hadn't seemed to get the message. It wanted him. It didn't care how obnoxiously arrogant he'd become, or even that he'd stolen her birthright. Her son's birthright. All it wanted—desperately—was to feel his hands moving over her body, taking that same slow path his dangerously tawny eyes were currently traveling.

  She stomped the hot unbidden sexual desire down and reminded her rebellious body that she'd sworn off men after her husband had gone on television and made her the most publicly pitied woman in America. And she'd definitely sworn off this particular man after he'd taken off for parts unknown, leaving her to face the worst days of her life alone.

  Dani sighed, realizing that although she'd grown up a lot since that summer, the memories still hurt.

  Jack waited, giving her time to sort out her feelings. It had to be tough, he allowed, returning home widowed from a bad marriage to find the man who'd taken her virginity, then deserted her without a word, living in her childhood home.

  She blew out a breath. Briefly closed her eyes, which had shadowed while he was watching the range of expressions move across her face. Then shrugged. “I suppose it might be interesting to see what changes you've made to my family's home.”

  His eyes narrowed, but for some reason—a faint leftover shred of southern chivalry, perhaps?—he refrained from reminding her again that it was his home now.

  They began with the English jury paneled library that looked out onto the garden, which had gone to seed. Since flowers were the least of his problems, Jack hadn't worried about that.

  “The books are all gone,” she murmured, looking up at the built-in shelves that had once held leather-bound first editions.

  “The judge put them in storage before his sentencing. Said he didn't want the vultures getting them.”

  “Well, that's certainly flattering.”

  “He wasn't talking about you, chère. Some of them are a little moldy from bein' in a warehouse in Baton Rouge all these past years he's been away, but I found a place in New Orleans that specializes in restoring old books. Looks like we'll probably be able to salvage most of them.”

  She stopped running her fingers over the fluted pilasters around the bookcases and looked up at him. “So you now own them, too?”

  “Yeah.” Jack heard the stiff accusation in her voice but refused to apologize. “I'd just come back to town when Earl Jenkins, the guy who owned the warehouse where the judge had stashed the books died, and his kids sold the moving and storage business to some company based in New York City.

  “Turns out Earl hadn't bothered collecting any rent, 'cause he figured he owed the judge, who'd gotten his second cousin, Tommy Lee, into an alcohol-treatment program instead of jail after a DUI.

  “But the damn Yankee, he didn't care about paying off moral debts, he just wanted the paper one taken care of. The judge had to either come up with the bucks for all those years of back storage, or the books were going to be sold at auction. So he called me.”

  “Why you?”

  “Hell if I know. Maybe he'd read about those Hollywood folks making that movie out of my book and figured I might have enough dough to bail the books out of hock. Maybe he thought that since I owned the house, I might want somethin' to fill the shelves. Or it could be he remembered how I was always sneakin' in here to read them.”

  What Jack didn't share with Dani was that the judge had eventually turned out to have an entirely different agenda, like wanting the same guy he'd once run out of town, if not on a rail, at least in a candy apple red GTO, to use his—and his FBI brother's—connections in the law-enforcement community to prove that he'd been framed seven years ago. And by whom.

  “I never knew you did that.”

  “That was kinda the point of sneaking. Maman was always scared the judge was going to discover me in here and fire her.”

  There'd been a time, back in his teens, when Jack had thought his maman had been overly concerned about losing a job she'd never wanted in the first place. A job she'd been forced to take in order to support her three sons after her husband was killed. It was only later, after the debacle in Colombia—which Jack continued to think of as Callahan's major fuckup—had taken away his own confidence in his ability to do his job, that he'd finally understood how the gunman who'd taken his father's life that day in the Blue Bayou courthouse had not only cost his mother her husband, but robbed her of any sense of security.

  Which was why, when the judge had threatened to fire Marie Callahan if her middle son didn't leave Blue Bayou—and Danielle—Jack had thrown some stuff into a duffel bag, headed off across the country to San Diego, and hadn't looked back. Until his world blew up in his face, leaving him nowhere else to go.

  “Turns out the judge had known about me reading his books all the time,” he revealed. There hadn't been much that old bastard missed. Which was why Jack was surprised he'd let himself get caught up in such an obvious frame.

  They continued the tour through the long double parlors which opened up onto a private courtyard designed for steamy hot summers. Then moved on to the formal dining room with the ceiling frescoes which were, like the grand hall mural, being restored. Since it was the largest room in the house, the ballroom was currently being used as an indoor shop, allowing work to continue even on the wettest of days.

  As they went upstairs, Jack realized that having been surrounded by construction for so long, he hadn't realized how much he'd actually accomplished. Beau Soleil would be a lifetime project, not just to restore, but to keep up. The funny thing was, he, who'd always sworn to escape Blue Bayou, didn't mind that idea at all.

  It was so hard, Dani thought. Seeing all that Jack had done to her home, then having to constantly remind herself it was his home now. But even as difficult as she found the rest of his impromptu tour, she was battered by emotions when she walked into her former bedroom.

  Once upon a time ago this room had been scented by the potpourri Jack's mother made from Beau Soleil's antique roses. Now the odors of dust and mold assaulted her senses.

  “The roof leaked and the moisture went through the attic floor to here,” he said as she lifted her gaze to the ceiling, where a brown spot shaped like an amoeba darkened the plaster. “I've got a guy coming in to fix it as soon as I replace the rotted wood on the floor above next week.”

  “That's good,” she murmured absently. She skirted the two sawhorses and went over to the window where an industrious spider had spun a web in the upper-left corner.

  “The tree's still there,” he said.

  “I know.” She did not volunteer how, when she'd first arrived, before she'd known he was sitting on the gallerie, she'd imagined herself climbing down it. Imagined his hands on her hips, helping her to the ground.

  “I had to saw off a limb that kept scrapin' against the window, 'cause I was afraid it'd break the glass.”

  “I imagine it'd be difficult to find replacement glass this old.”

  “Not around here. There are one helluva lot of fine old places crumbling away all through the bayou.”

  But Beau Soleil would not be lost. Thanks to him. Dani tried to be grateful for that.

  As she looked around the room, instead of the yellowed wallpaper, crumbling plaster ceiling, and missing baseboards, she saw it as it had once been, when white rosebuds had blossomed on a field of palest green, when creamy molding had run acr
oss the top of the wall and a lacy white iron bed, which had belonged to her great-great-grandmother, covered with tea-dyed crocheted lace had dominated the room.

  “The bed's out in the carriage house,” he said, as if he'd plucked the question right out of her mind.

  “It's nice something survived.”

  “I heard the judge had a lot of the furniture shipped to your house in D.C. after your marriage.”

  “It was Virginia. He insisted he wanted to close off some rooms since he was the only one living here.”

  “You gonna have it shipped back?”

  “No. I ended up selling it to pay bills.”

  “What kind of bills?”

  “You know.” Her shrug didn't come off nearly as negligent as she'd hoped. “The normal day-to-day stuff. Along with lawyer fees from the divorce, and of course there was the funeral.”

  “Your husband didn't have insurance?”

  “Lowell had his legislative insurance, but he'd changed the beneficiary on the policy to his fiancée.”

  Who'd cut her losses, hadn't bothered to chip in to bury the man she'd stolen from his family, and was currently working for an up-and-coming young congressman from Rhode Island. Dani hoped the politician's pregnant wife kept a closer watch on her husband and her marriage than she had.

  “He had some other policies we'd bought together over the years, but he'd cashed them out to cover margin calls on his stocks.”

  “No offense, but you went off and married yourself one helluva louse.”

  “I'm afraid you're right. But the furniture wouldn't have fit in the apartment over the library, anyway.” A pain she'd thought she put behind her flared, scorching her nerves. When she felt her hands begin to tremble, she shoved them into the back pockets of her shorts.

  “Wasn't it Thoreau who said our life is frittered away by details? I should know because I'm a reference librarian and we're supposed to know everything. . . .

  “Yes, I'm sure it was Thoreau. He was so before his time, wasn't he? With his simplify, simplify message.”

  Lord, she was on the verge of babbling. Dani never babbled. Not ever. “Those are such inspirational words to live by, aren't they? The world would be ever so much better off if everyone followed his advice.”

  “Walden Pond might get a little crowded.”

  Because it hurt, really hurt, to be in this room, where they'd once, during a wonderful, reckless night, made love in that lovely antique iron bed now being stored in the carriage house, Dani flashed him a bright, utterly false smile.

  “You're undoubtedly right. But it's Thoreau's idea that's important, isn't it? Not the reality. People don't spend enough time thinking about the impact they have on the world. After all, our environment is so fragile . . .

  “Hell.” She drew in a ragged breath. When Jack moved toward her, his face showing concern for the crazy lady, Dani backed away and lifted her hands, palms out. “I'm okay. Really. It's just been a long day and the trip out here did a number on my nerves. But I'll be fine. I just need a moment.” Thoroughly disgusted with herself, she turned toward the door, seeking to escape with some small shred of dignity intact.

  “It got to me, too, chère.”

  His quiet statement had her pausing. She turned back toward him and read the truth in his eyes. “What?” she asked, even as she knew the answer.

  “Remembering. You and me, together in here.” He tilted his head toward where her bed had once been but didn't take his gaze from hers. “First time I walked into this room I felt as if someone had hit me in the gut with a fist.”

  He crossed the room to her and leaned close. Too close. “I figured it was just bein' back here again. Told myself that I'd get used to it.” Closer still.

  “Did you?”

  “Not yet. Sometimes, late at night, I come in here, sit on the floor and get a little drunk while I look out at the moon and remember how good you looked—how good you felt—in that pretty white bed.”

  He braced a hand on the doorframe above her head. “You ever think about that? While you were lying alone in that marriage bed you made, waiting for your husband to come home from his girlfriend and make love to you the way a woman like you should be made love to?”

  “No. I didn't,” she lied. He couldn't have known. It was only a lucky guess. Ducking beneath his arm, she headed for the back stairs.

  “You'll think about it tonight,” he predicted.

  Dani thought about arguing, but knew that he was right.

  As desperately as she wanted to leave, Dani needed carpenters worse. And it seemed the only way she was going to get them was to humor Jack by staying for supper.

  “Do you know, I doubt if my father was in this kitchen more than half a dozen times in his life,” she murmured, peeling the shrimp while he heated the oil in the old iron skillet for the roux.

  Turnip was standing on her hind legs, oversize paws on the counter, licking her muzzle with canine appreciation.

  “My uncle started teachin' us boys how to cook about the same time he and my dad taught us to bait our first hook.” He yanked the dog down by the collar. “Lie down, you.”

  Obviously uninjured by his firm tone, Turnip turned around three times, lay down, curled herself into a tight ball, put her head on her back legs, and continued to watch Jack's every move.

  He added flour to the oil. The way he whisked the browning mixture with deft, easy strokes suggested he did it often. “It's a Cajun rite of passage, like your first game of bourré back from when men had to feed themselves during all those lonely months out at their camps, fishing and trapping.”

  “Do you still have the camp?” Damn. Bringing up the place where he'd taken her so they could be alone, especially after having been together in the bedroom, was definitely a tactical error.

  One Jack thankfully let lie. “The three of us inherited it when Maman died. Nate uses it a few times a year, Finn's probably been back twice. I stayed out there when I first came back.”

  The whisk stilled for a moment. He glanced over at her. “Nate told me you didn't know I'd bought Beau Soleil.”

  “No.” She began peeling a little faster. The pile of shrimp shells grew higher. “That came as a surprise.” Her voice was calm, her hands were not.

  He turned down the heat. “I'm sorry.”

  “Sorry that you bought my home? Or sorry that my husband let me think it'd been lost to taxes after my father was sentenced to prison?”

  “Helluva thing, your daddy gettin' convicted like that.”

  “Yes,” she said. “It was.” She took a sip of the smooth California Chardonnay he'd poured her when they'd first returned to the kitchen.

  Jack blew out a breath. “Look, Danielle, we may not be friends, but I'm not exactly your enemy, either.”

  “Then what, exactly, are you?” Other than the man who'd broken her heart, nearly destroyed her life, then stolen her home.

  “I'm the guy who bought Beau Soleil, and if it weren't for me comin' up with a higher bid, your no-good, screw-around husband would have sold her to the Maggione family. You may not like the idea of me living in your fine old Louisiana plantation home, which, may I point out, the Dupree family didn't exactly come into by the sweat of their brow in the first place, since everyone knows old Andre won it on that riverboat by stacking the cards, but the fact is, I am living here. And I'm not goin' anywhere anytime soon.

  “I'm also not going to apologize for buying her, because she was crumbling back into the bayou from years of neglect, and I'm exactly what she needs to make her beautiful again. But I am sorry that your husband was such a prick.”

  She hated that he had a point. About everything. “Well, that makes two of us.”

  “What the hell made you do it? Marry a guy like that?”

  “I don't suppose you'd believe I liked the idea of not having to change my last name?”

  “Try again. The Dupree name's on mailboxes and tombstones all throughout this parish. It didn't have to be him. Hell
, if that was all you were lookin' to do, you probably would've been better off marrying old Arlan down at the Bijoux.”

  Arlan Dupree, who washed windows and changed the posters at the theater, was in his sixties and slow-witted from being hit in the head during all his years in the boxing ring. Despite having made a living with his fists, he was as gentle as a lamb.

  “I suppose, in retrospect, I mostly married Lowell because my father wanted me to.”

  “That's one helluva piss-poor reason to get married.”

  “Tell me about it.” Dani sighed and began sweeping up the shells as the air in the kitchen grew steamy with spices.

  When she'd first met the congressional candidate who'd moved to Louisiana from coastal Texas, his smooth, cultivated Ashley Wilkes charm had proven a balm to the wounded heart she'd been nursing for too long. The fact that Judge Dupree had endorsed both of Lowell's campaigns—the one for the U.S. Congress, and the one for his daughter—had been another plus in his favor.

  As distant as her father had been all her life, he'd barely spoken to her since those days of her summer love. She'd been so desperate for his approval, as well as wanting to make up for past sins, that she didn't hesitate accepting Lowell's proposal within weeks after they'd first met. Besides, if she were to be perfectly honest, marrying such a classically handsome, popular man seemed no hardship at the time.

  Despite being uncomfortable in the media spotlight that was part and parcel of a tightly contested political campaign, Dani had enjoyed the attention Lowell lavished on her during their whirlwind courtship.

  When they married, two weeks before the election, his poll numbers took a huge post-wedding bounce. After all, while the judge might not be the most liked man in the parish, he was highly respected; if the young politician was good enough for Judge Dupree's only daughter, then he was good enough for the voters of south Louisiana. By marrying Danielle, candidate Lowell Dupree rid his campaign of any lingering charges of carpetbagging and went on to win the congressional seat in a landslide.

  The night before her wedding, she'd confessed to misgivings. That was when her father told her that Lowell had promised him a federal court appointment—maybe even the Supreme Court when, not if, he got to the White House. Both men had been so full of ambitious plans, she thought on a soft sigh. Plans that had nothing to do with her.