by Lynn Shurr
Speakers placed outside the church allowed those who could not be seated to follow the service intoned in Reverend Bentley Bullock’s stentorian voice. When the organ blasted out the recessional, the visitors lining the sidewalk armed themselves with handfuls of rice from a five-pound sack someone had remembered to tote along. Too short to see over the crowd, Nell wiggled her way to a space by the church steps. She threw her rice as the couple exited after a long photo session inside the sanctuary. The grains came down like hail, and the Rev and his bride ran for the limousine waiting at the curb.
One joker threw an entire box of Minute Rice, which the Rev caught and tossed back to a teammate. Ten dollars exchanged hands. Nell overheard the Sinners’ Coach Buck say, “Told you he’d catch it. The man has great hands,” as he pocketed his bet.
Two little girls dressed in bright pink trotted behind the bride holding up the long train of her gown. When they flipped it up and down to clear the rice, the expanse of seed pearl and crystal embroidered cloth threw off a burst of sparkles nearly as bright as the bride’s diamond choker. The rice jumped around like popcorn. Giggling and still flapping, the train-bearers were drawn into the limo as Arminta—often called Mintay and now Mrs. Revelation Jeremiah Bullock—gathered up the cloth. The sisters of the church, talking among themselves nearby, claimed they had never seen such finery outside of Mardi Gras. Why that train had dragged halfway down the aisle of the AME sanctuary. Nell believed them.
The hail of rice ending, the attendants emerged from the wide, red-painted doors. Connor Riley, wide receiver for the Sinners, escorted the bride’s matron of honor, her sister, Edwina, according to the program. As they came down the steps, someone dumped a handful of rice into Connor’s long, blond hair. He shook his mane and sent rice flying. His sports photographer fiancée, Stevie Dowd, was the culprit. She laughed at him now and stretched her long legs after spending an hour crammed into a seat at the back of the church. Nell stood among all these celebrities she’d seen in the tabloids and marveled at their size and physical beauty.
The attendants continued to pour out of the church, eight couples in all, the last, a pairing of Joe Dean Billodeaux with one of the Rev’s cousins. All the Bullocks were on the large side, Nell observed. The young woman probably tipped the scales at one-hundred eighty and unfortunately chose to wear the bright pink gown rather than the royal purple dresses like four of the other bridesmaids.
Joe caught sight of Nell and paused. “Hey, Nell. This is Larisha. Doesn’t she have a great smile? And you should hear her laugh. You could shill for a comedian, sugar.” He squeezed the delighted girl’s pudgy arm and coaxed out that laugh.
“I can see you are experienced groomsman,” Nell said. He had most likely experienced a number of bridesmaids, too. She had to remember under that nice guy routine lurked a hardened womanizer.
“I was in all four of my sisters’ weddings. Got to go, but you save me a dance, cher.”
Ducking a handful of rice throw by Stevie Dowd, he escorted Larisha toward the line of white limos stretching down the street. His eyes scanned the crowd again before taking his seat, but she felt safely obscured by the Rev’s stout family members. Once the wedding party reached the Mardi Gras ballroom—the only place in the small town big enough to hold several hundred guests—she would find a nice, dark corner table, have a little food and drink, then be on her way home.
Nell thought the decorators had done a wonderful job of turning the somewhat shabby hall into a wedding wonderland with bolts and bolts of white tulle, tiny white twinkle lights, and banks of potted azaleas matching the colors of the bridesmaids’ dresses. The band and bar were in full swing by the time the last limo pulled up. Guests who had decided against standing out in the afternoon sun to hear the service had claimed the best tables.
Some newcomers oohed and aahed over the six-tiered wedding cake and a groom’s cake shaped like LSU’s Tiger stadium where the Rev had gotten his start toward pro ball. Others fanned out looking for seats. Nell was one of these. Dressed in spring green, she floated like a leaf looking for a place to light. She didn’t know a soul in the crowd and regretted having come to the celebration even though the security guards at the door assured her the bride had placed her name on the guest list. Well, she could always wish Mintay and the Rev the best of lives together and head for home as soon as possible. Why had she been tempted to come?
“Over here, Wish Lady!” A long, slim arm waved her to a chair currently being occupied by a camera bag at one of the reserved tables up by the seating for the bridal party. Stevie Dowd called to her. Tall enough in four-inch silver heels to be seen over the mob, Stevie beckoned. “I have a seat for you.”
Nell squeezed her way between the guests and arrived by Stevie’s side. “Mintay asked me to save a place for you and be on the lookout. I remember you from the photo shoot before the Super Bowl. Sorry I don’t recall your real name, but you are responsible for one of the priceless moments in my photographic career—a fantastic shot of Joe Dean Billodeaux being turned down by a woman.”
“I’m Nellwyn Abbott and you are Stevie Dowd, famous sports photographer. Sorry, lots of my patients, especially the teenagers, are addicted to People and some of the tabloids. They keep me informed,” Nell admitted. “One of them had the cover with you and Connor Riley kissing after the Super Bowl hung up in her room.”
“Would that be Cassie, one of the Wish Kidz we met? The picture was taken by an old friend of mine who likes to exploit me for profit. How is she doing?” Stevie asked.
“Great, thank heaven. I think she’ll make it.”
“And the boys?”
“Didn’t. You have to concentrate on the ones who do, Stevie.”
“I understand. Anyhow, I’m likely to be neglected by Connor most of the afternoon while the wedding photographer pushes the bridal party around. I brought my camera to pass the time and maybe get a few candids. We can hang out together, okay?” Stevie slouched down in her elegant silk pantsuit of pearl gray and played with a series of silver and gold chains around her throat.
“No fabulous engagement ring from Connor Riley yet? I need to collect some gossip for sassy Cassie while I’m here. Maybe that’s why I came,” Nell questioned herself.
Stevie pulled on one of her chains and fished a large ring from her cleavage, which began at the first of the rhinestone buttons of her top. “Connor’s Super Bowl ring. It’s all I wanted.”
“So you are like, going steady forever?” Nell asked doing a good imitation of Cassie.
“Exactly. I thought you came to be with Joe Dean, not to admire my ring. Oops. I can tell by your expression the bride neglected to mention how she thought a kiddie shrink would be perfect for Joe who is a tad immature. I was supposed to make sure the two of you connected. Sorry.”
“A tad? Make that a ton. I have no intention of being his number seventy, thanks anyway.” Nell started to rise from her specially held seat.
“I believe the man is up to seventy-five now. Really, Joe needs to grow up when it comes to women,” Stevie agreed.
The eyes of both women turned to where the quarterback had his arm around the waist of his plump bridesmaid. Several relatives took pictures with the disposable cameras left in baskets on the tables.
Joe Dean saw them watching. He sent Nell a special smile from across the room. The force of it made her blink. His beautiful dark eyes glinted. His black hair shone with blue highlights. All six-foot three inches of quarterback focused on her…ordinary Nell Abbott. With her mind glazing over, she sat down again. Stevie waved a hand before her eyes.
“I’m breaking the spell,” she claimed. “Do not sleep with this man unless he marries you.”
“That’s how you handled Connor?” Nell asked.
“Uh, no. With us, it was sort of sex, proposal, sex, breakup, sex, engagement. Connor says we were meant to be together. After all we’ve been through, I believe him. Let’s get something to eat.”
Beyond the chilled shrimp and
salad choices, servers carved rare roast beef and southern hams. The melon baskets were many and each was attended by a ring of mammoth strawberries dressed in black and white chocolate tuxedos. Evidently, the Rev’s kin preferred their food plain but plentiful. Stevie and Nell filled their plates and returned to their prime seats.
Toasts were made. The champagne flowed, along with a vast variety of beers, colas: regular, diet and un-, and any easily mixed drink. Thus loosened up, the wedding party began to dance. Joe Dean danced with his bridesmaid, then Mintay’s married sister, then all of the other bridesmaids. Connor followed suit. With the obligations finished, both men felt free to gravitate toward the table where Stevie and Nell sat chatting with three pair of the Rev’s aunts and uncles.
Moses Bullock kept the champagne glasses filled even though his wife, Ethaline, announced she was a teetotaler and did not approve. Nell had reached her two glass limit an hour ago and took only tiny sips from the ever full third flute. As a small person, she did not hold her liquor well and had learned in college even three drinks pushed the limit for her. As it was, she felt a giddy thrill when Joe Dean came up behind her and put his large hands over her eyes.
“Guess who?”
“I have no idea. Ahh, maybe Connor Riley. I hear he has great hands.”
“Well, I have a great arm. It’s Joe.”
“Joe, who?” she answered sending Stevie, way past her third glass, into a fit of giggles at this lame repartee.
Giving up on cute, Joe pulled Nell’s chair back. “Let’s dance, Wish Lady.”
He took her with him all too easily into the space in front of the band and snuggled her up against his chest. Glad she had worn her highest heels, she took two steps back and tilted her head upward to see his face.
“Just one dance. I really must leave soon. It’s nearly three hour’s drive back to Metairie and if Uncle Moses fills my glass again, I might not be fit to do it. I wasn’t planning on spending money on a motel.”
“There are no motels in Chapelle anyhow. You’d have to drive to Lafayette, and that wouldn’t be a good idea in your crazy, drunken condition.” Evidently, Joe Dean recognized a convenient excuse when he heard one. “I’m a native here. You can stay with my family. They got an extra room. It’s right next to mine,” he added and felt her startle in his arms, a dead giveaway that he had some effect on her.
“I wouldn’t want to impose.”
“No, no. They like company. My mama has been after me to bring a nice young lady home for years. I’m staying over to check out the ranch I bought. See about getting a few horses. You could help me pick out gentle ones for the children.”
He gave her a Gotcha’ Wish Lady grin and drew Nellwyn close against his chest again, her head resting on his heart. She felt herself go warm and soft and boneless like her friend’s orange tabby cat who loved to sit in her lap and purr. No purring! She had to keep up the conversation.
“I don’t know anything about horses. I can’t ride.”
“Even better. If you can handle the animal, it must be safe for kids.”
“We’ll see how late the reception goes.”
By the time Mintay and the Rev piled into their limousine and headed for a charter flight to their “undisclosed honeymoon destination” as the papers would say, Nell felt, not drunk, but woozy and very tired.
“Go ahead and stay at Joe’s place,” Stevie urged. “His mama will protect you, guaranteed, as Joe would say.”
“Guar-an-teed,” Joe repeated with a sparkling grin promising just the opposite. “My Porsche is right out back. We can collect your car tomorrow.”
Nellwyn Abbott soon found herself bumping along the substandard back roads of Chapelle, Louisiana in a red sports car that did not handle potholes very well. With relief, she saw they were slowing down before a modern ranch-style home sitting on a large lot carved from the cane fields on either side. The security light was on and the front door open.
Joe Dean hollered as they entered the house, “Mama, guess who I brought home!”
FOUR
Hospitality at the Billodeaux home turned out to be spontaneous and friendly. In short order, Mrs. Billodeaux provided Nell with a bedroom not next to Joe’s, an oversized t-shirt to sleep in, which did belong to Joe, and a fresh toothbrush. As Nell moved from the bedroom to the bathroom in the hallway, she heard his mama making a late phone call starting with, “Allie, you won’t guess. Joe brought home a girl, a nice one.” No way was she leaving her locked room again until morning.
When the Sunday light spread across the white eyelet comforter, Nell roused herself from a fairly decent sleep and did what she had been urged to do last evening, rummage through two identical chests of drawers for casual clothing to put on. The Billodeaux girls—who had once shared this room with its matching twin beds, dressers, and night tables, and souvenir cluttered bulletin boards—were a heftier breed than Nell. The smallest pair of jeans required a tightly cinched belt to stay up and had to be rolled into substantial cuffs at the bottom. She tied a large chambray shirt faded to a pale blue-white at her waist and pushed its cuffs up to her elbows. Barefooted, Nell padded down the hall following the scents of breakfast in the making.
Forking bacon from a cast iron pan, Mrs. Billodeaux turned to her husband who was deep into reading the Sunday sports section. “Ain’t she darlin’, Frank? Tres petite. No?”
“Cute as newborn calf, Nadine,” her husband answered. “Coffee, cher?” He held up a pot sitting at his right elbow.
“Please.” Nell took a seat at a round oak table lit by a wagon wheel chandelier. She took a sip. “Maybe with a little milk and sugar.”
“Frank likes it strong enough to stand the spoon,” Nadine Billodeaux testified while getting a carton of milk from the refrigerator and pushing a sugar bowl Nell’s way. She poured a bowl of beaten eggs into the bacon grease and buttered some freshly popped toast as the eggs bubbled up.
“Could I help with breakfast?” Nell offered.
“Manners, too, Frank,” Nadine remarked. “No, cher, I got it under control. I used to cook for seven. Now it’s just me and Frank except for hired help during the cane harvest. Of course, my grandkids stay over sometimes, but all they ever want is Pop Tarts and Fruit Loops.” Holding up a saucepan, she offered, “Grits?”
“Just a little bit,” Nell replied, watching Mrs. Billodeaux piling on the scrambled eggs and adding toast and bacon strips to her plate.
She served her husband twice the portion, then shouted down the hall, “Joe Dean, eggs are gettin’ cold.”
Wearing nothing but striped pajama bottoms that sagged low across his pelvic bones, Joe wandered into the kitchen.
“Go back and put you on some clothes before you sit at my table, boy. Wear something decent. We can still get to eleven o’clock Mass,” his mama ordered.
Nell bit into a piece of bacon. Saliva flooded her mouth as a heavy-eyed Joe ran a hand through his thick, tousled hair, scratched his heavily muscled chest and turned, giving her a fine view of his slim rear end as he returned to his room. She did not eat bacon very often.
“Spoiled by his sisters, but not by me. Cat’lic, dear?” Mrs. Billodeaux inquired.
“Me? No, Episcopalian.” Nell blotted her lips on a handy paper napkin.
“Almost Cat’lic.” She gave a “can’t have everything” shrug. “All’s I want for my Joe is a nice girl to settle down wit’. I don’t approve of what I read at the grocery store, no. We didn’t allow none of that when he was living at home, did we, Frank?”
“Nope.” Frank poured more coffee and hid behind the comics.
“We scrimped to send him to parochial school. He says he would have been noticed sooner by the scouts if we let him go to public school, but those nuns did teach that boy morals. He’s got ’em somewheres. I keep saying there is more to life than sex and football, Joe.”
“Aw, Ma. Nell doesn’t need to hear all this.” Joe, now decently attired in a plain white shirt unbuttoned at the neck and clea
n, new jeans, but still barefooted, slid into a chair at the table and began digging into the farmer’s breakfast sitting at his place. His mama set mugs of orange juice, milk and coffee down in front of him.
“And you wonder why I never bring anyone home,” he groused.
“The kind who would put their name on a list for sex I don’t need to know. Milk or juice, little darlin’,” Nadine said to Nell.
“Just coffee is fine, thanks.” Nell ducked her head to stay out of the crossfire. She could see where Joe got his strong features and thick, dark hair, though his mother’s was shot through with silver. In build, he more resembled the long-limbed Frank who knew when to stay out of matters. Frank offered her the comics and went on reading the front section of the paper.
“Nell is nice. She’s a child psychologist who works with sick kids. And she doesn’t want to have sex with me,” Joe answered petulantly.
“Good girl. You save yourself for the weddin’ night,” Mrs. Billodeaux said with approval.
Nell felt herself turning red and practiced the Frank technique of pretending to read the comics. Joe dropped his fork and leaned her way during its retrieval. “But it’s just a matter of time for us,” he whispered. More loudly, he asked, “Ready to go over to the ranch, Nell? A guy is bringing by some horses for me to look at in about an hour.”
“Oh, yes! I’m ready.” Nell took her plate to the sink. She had devoured the bacon, most of the eggs, some of the grits and one piece of toast, more breakfast than she ate in a week of breakfasts.
“What about Mass?” Nadine Billodeaux asked.
“No Mass, Ma. I have to take care of business, then get Nell back to her poor, sick kids in New Orleans. Let’s find some boots, Nell.” He rose from the table and motioned toward a side door. It opened onto a mudroom with a row of dirty boots shoved under an old bench.
