Shadows of Home: A Woman with Questions. A Man with Secrets. A Bayou without Mercy

by Deborah Epperson

  “Is that why you were out in the Caddo this evening?”

  “Yes. I have to settle this in my mind, one way or another. I can’t leave until I do. It’s like a cancer eating at me.”

  Royce pulled her into his arms and whispered, “You won’t find your answer in the bayous, Cricket.”

  “I have to try.”

  He brushed back her hair and bent down to kiss her, but she pushed him away. “I’d better get back before Mamaw gets worried.”

  Royce looked disappointed, but didn’t argue. “I’m in my Jeep tonight, but tomorrow I’ll get a truck from work and bring your pirogue home.” He picked up his keys. “You remember how to water ski?”

  “I think so.” She smiled in an effort to lighten the mood. “We have this little pond in Chicago called Lake Michigan. Maybe you’ve heard of it.”

  “I didn’t know if you had a boat.”

  “I don't, but a good friend does.”

  “Is this friend an architect by chance?”

  Elita crossed her arms. “It seems Nettie has a big mouth.”

  “Maybe she thought I should know about your romance, especially after you interrogated her about my failed engagement.”

  “She brought the subject up, not me.”

  A grin tugged the corners of his mouth. “Seems Nettie has her own agenda for us. She always thought you were good for me.”

  “And she was right.” Elita expected Royce to argue the point, but instead he studied her, as if trying to decide if Nettie was correct in her evaluation. She rinsed out the wine glasses and placed them in the drainer. “I wouldn’t mind going skiing tomorrow.” She swiveled to look at him. “Come over around noon. I’ll fix lunch.”

  He shook his head. “I’m not going in Mamaw Pearl’s house. She hates me.”

  “She doesn’t like you because you’re a Sutton, but she doesn’t hate you the way your mother despises me.”

  “I went over to talk to Matt and she whacked me in the knee with that damn cane of hers.”

  “She doesn’t weigh 110 pounds. It couldn’t have hurt much.”

  “Damn sure did. I limped for two days.”

  Elita doubled over with laughter.

  “I’m glad you find my pain so funny.” Royce motioned for her to come on. “I’ll ask Nettie to fix us a picnic basket. We can have lunch on the boat.”

  “Okay.” Elita stifled a last giggle. “Why did you need to talk to Uncle Matt?”

  “It was business.” Royce ushered her toward his Jeep. He opened the passenger door, grabbed the oversized first aid kit sitting on the floorboard and heaved it onto the backseat. He pointed at a CB radio mounted underneath the dashboard. “Be careful or you’ll bang your knee.”

  Elita arched a brow. “Are you planning on a disaster?”

  “Accidents happen all the time around the rigs and well heads. I like to be prepared for any emergency.”

  Always prepared. This was the Royce she remembered. She climbed into the Jeep. “By the way, what kind of business would you and my uncle have to discuss?”

  He chuckled. “You’re as nosy now as you ever were.”

  “Can I help it if I have a curious mind?”

  Royce planted a quick kiss on her cheek and whispered, “So did the cat, and we both know what happened to her.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Royce placed the picnic basket on the kitchen counter. “Sorry about being late. I stopped by the office and—”

  “Got tied up with a couple of fellows.” Elita set her tote bag on a bar stool. “You don’t need to keep apologizing.”

  He hiked a brow. “Why are you letting me off the hook so easy?”

  “Things happen like that where I work too. Someone has a flat tire or misses their ride to the hospital and I end up working overtime.”

  Royce retrieved a couple of beers from the refrigerator, handed her one. “I should’ve called to say I was running late.”

  “That would’ve been nice.”

  “Don’t be mad, Elita.”

  She tugged at a loose thread on the hem of her shorts. “I’m not.”

  Royce hoped that was a lie. He wanted her to be mad at him, mad enough to care that he’d been an hour late picking her up and hadn’t bothered to phone. The girl he’d known all his life would’ve been livid. She’d have insisted on an apology and a promise that he’d never be so thoughtless in the future. She’d always demanded his best from him. So had his parents, but their demand was based solely on the fact that his last name was Sutton. Elita wanted him to be the best man he could be because she genuinely cared about him. If she couldn’t muster enough passion to be mad at him, could it mean she no longer cared?

  He gulped down half his beer, ran his hand over his mouth. “We’ve still got time to go skiing if you want.”

  She set down her drink and picked up her bag. “Where can I change clothes?”

  “Use the master bedroom. It’s the last door—”

  “I remember where it is.”

  “I’ll get the boat ready.”

  “Okay.” She reached for her beer.

  Royce grabbed her hand. “When did you learn to be so tolerant?”

  “When did you learn to be so ill-mannered?” She jerked her hand from his, slung her bag over her shoulder and marched off toward the bedroom.

  He grinned. “You are mad, aren’t you?”

  “Am not,” she yelled over her shoulder before disappearing down the hallway.

  Yep, the lady was definitely mad at him, he thought as he finished his beer. He retrieved the boat keys and set out for the dock, whistling.

  * * *

  Elita opened the door to the bedroom, threw the tote bag on the bed and gasped. She barely recognized the room. Simple tab curtains and a taupe comforter had replaced Dorothea’s flowered chintz drapes and matching bedspread. Her four-poster mahogany bedroom set was gone, exchanged for a knotty pine dresser with mirror, a matching headboard, and a nightstand topped with a vintage Stickley lamp. The windowed corner where her red velvet chaise once resided now contained a twig table and russet leather recliner. A faint whiff of a man’s cologne, a musky fragrance with a tinge of citrus, tickled her nose. Royce’s scent, manly, yet fresh and clean.

  Elita ran her hand across the back of the recliner, relishing the soft, cool feel of the leather. She knew running a company like Sutton Oil wasn’t a simple nine-to-five, five days a week job, and understood Royce’s late arrival. But dammit, he should’ve called. Did he think so little of her that he couldn’t be bothered to show her the courtesy of a simple phone call?

  Surveying the room, she noticed the items on the dresser had been neatly divided into four areas: brushes and combs, a man’s jewelry box, a silver tray for pocket change, and a carved wooden box. The twig table held a collection of writings by Edgar Allen Poe, two geology reference books, and several business magazines. Anger faded into disappointment. Where were the biology textbooks? Where were the anatomy charts that had papered the walls of Royce’s room when he was younger? Nothing in the room indicated he still had any interest in medicine.

  Elita pulled open the sliding door and walked out onto the master suite patio. Royce had tied the boat to the dock and was filling it with skis and assorted gear. Maybe she should offer to help him or yell out something funny. She didn’t want to be angry with him. She wanted everything to be as it used to be between them, effortless and uncomplicated.

  When they were young, their being together was the most natural state in the world. If he was the right shoe, then she was the left. If he was salt, she was pepper. Without each other, their world didn’t feel complete. They didn’t know why. Anyone looking at them from the outside would say they were as different as roses and stinkweed.

  His family was rich. Hers was poor, although they never viewed themselves that way. The Dupree family didn’t live in a mansion, have a cook, or drive fancy new cars, but that was fine with Elita. Her daddy’s Plymouth got them wherever they needed to go. It
didn’t take very long to clean a 14 by 80 foot trailer house. And when it came to cooking, not even Nettie could outdo Madeline Dupree. At Elita’s house, Royce could put his feet on the coffee table and laugh as loud as he wanted to.

  Royce’s mother, Dorothea, had so many house rules for her sons and their friends that Sutton Manor seemed more like a museum than a home. Enter the house through the back door. Take your shoes off immediately. Be quiet at all times. Don’t get anything out of the icebox without permission. And under no circumstances should any bayou trash—her term for folks who made their living from the Caddo—be invited into her house. Elita didn’t figure her family was anymore bayou trash than the Suttons were. After all, Sutton Oil got its start drilling for oil in Caddo Lake.

  Royce kept all his mother’s silly rules except the last one. He and Elita would often sneak into the kitchen where Nettie would slip them a snack. When Dorothea was home, they’d go to Elita’s house or grab her grandpa’s pirogue and paddle out to one of their secret places. If Royce’s mother was gone, the teenagers ran all over her fancy house. Sometimes, they’d sneak into the master bedroom and Royce would let Elita try on his mother’s clothes, jewelry, and furs. Elita would prance around and talk in a high-toned prissy manner to imitate Dorothea, while Royce slipped on his father’s jacket and Stetson. They’d pretend they were a wealthy married couple out on the town for the evening. If Dorothea knew what Royce and Elita had done while lying on her prized sable coat, she’d burn the garment.

  As kids, Royce and Elita had a good time poking fun at his family, but sometimes after they’d laughed so much their sides ached, Royce would grow quiet as his face filled with sadness. Then she’d get melancholy, too. It was like that when they were young. Elita hurt when he hurt. Royce smiled when she smiled, as if they were two people with one bundle of feelings between them. Her mother called them kindred spirits. Elita didn’t know what they were to each other now, but she longed for that old feeling of intimacy.

  She strolled back into the bedroom, turned on the lamp, and pulled two bathing suits out of her tote bag. The first was a buttercup-yellow one-piece with white trim along the neckline and legs. The cut of the neckline allowed only the smallest hint of cleavage to show. She threw it aside and retrieved the two-piece.

  This suit still had the tags on it because she’d yet to get up the courage to wear it. Elita removed the tags, slipped off her clothes, and tried the suit on. She looked in the mirror. Blue and lavender flowers with cream centers and emerald green leaves decorated the material. The bottom had a short skirt that tied on the side like a sarong. The top of the pants stopped right below her navel. The bra top hooked in the back and had strings that tied around her neck. The tighter she pulled the strings, the higher her breasts rose and the deeper the cleavage.

  Elita twisted left, then right, over, then back to see how the suit would move on her. She grabbed the one-piece, held it in front of her, and tried to decide which suit she liked best. The two-piece was sexy, daring, and sure to get Royce’s attention. The yellow suit was attractive, modest, and more practical for serious skiing.

  “The blue one gets my vote.”

  Elita whirled around. Royce stood at the patio door, shirt unbuttoned, grinning like a raccoon that had just pilfered a picnicker’s lunch. He’d changed into cutoff jeans.

  “How long have you been standing there, Royce?”

  “A couple of minutes.”

  “Only a couple of minutes?”

  “It might not matter. Looks like it’s going to rain.”

  They walked out onto the patio. A squall line of ominous clouds darkened the northwest sky, while a growing wind rustled the trees. In the distance, a quick flash of lightening preceded the low rumble of thunder. Thunderstorms were common, especially in the spring and early summer months. They came on fast, dumped several inches of rain, and moved out of the area. Occasionally, a storm would produce hail, tornadoes, high winds, or flooding.

  Back inside, Royce closed the screen on the patio door and opened the windows. “This room could use an airing out.”

  “Nettie said you’d been on an oil rig out in the Gulf of Mexico for the past two weeks.”

  “Yeah, and I was on one in the North Sea before that. Sutton Oil has invested in several offshore drilling rigs in the past year. Part of my job is keeping an eye on them.”

  “Sounds like you’re gone a lot. Doesn’t that get tiring?”

  “I don’t want to talk about work.” He sauntered over to his dresser, picked up the carved wooden box. “Bet you can’t guess what’s in here?”

  “A key to a safety deposit box full of cash?”

  He laughed, removed the lid, and handed her the box.

  The box contained a bracelet made of tiny, pearly pink seashells strung together on a thin wire. She picked it up, turned it over in her hand. When Elita was nine, she and her mother took her grandparents to Galveston so her Grandpa Maurice could see the doctors at the University of Texas Medical Branch hospital. Their four-day trip turned into a three-week stay as the physicians tried in vain to get her grandfather’s lung cancer into remission.

  Royce celebrated his twelfth birthday while she was gone. Elita wanted to send him a present, but money was tight. So every time she went for a walk along the beach, Elita collected tiny shells until there were enough shells to make Royce the bracelet. A silly gift and one more appropriate for a girl, but it told Royce that she was thinking of him. And even though Cliff had teased him mercilessly, Royce wore her homemade gift until it got too small for his wrist.

  A lump formed in her throat. “I can’t believe you kept this all these years.”

  “Why wouldn’t I?” He placed the bracelet back in the box.

  “Because it’s such a silly little thing.”

  “Not to me. It’s special because you made it.” Royce set the wooden box on the dresser, slipped his hands around her waist, and drew her to him. “Welcome home, Elita,” he whispered as his mouth closed on hers.

  His kiss was gentle, undemanding. Even so, Elita placed her hands on his shoulders, intent on pushing him away. But instead, her arms coiled around his neck. Royce crushed her to him as his kiss deepened. Her fingers slid through his hair until the need for air finally forced their lips apart and she collapsed against him, gasping for breath.

  “Damn, I’ve missed you, Cricket,” he murmured.

  “Missed you too.” She placed her hand over his heart and found it beating as fast as hers.

  He slid his hands down her hips and pushed them into his.

  Even through his denim shorts, she could feel his desire rising. They were barreling down a road that was familiar, yet untraveled by the grownups they’d become. Elita wasn’t sure it’d be a wise journey to make so soon. A teenager’s recollection of events coupled with the passage of time can make memories seem better than they’d really been. For years, she’d dreamed of lying in Royce’s arms in this very room, the room where they’d spent their last evening together. Now that the dream was on the verge of coming true, she worried reality might not live up to her imagined expectations.

  Elita started to pull away, but Royce locked his hands behind her and lowered his head to kiss her again. She splayed her hands across his chest to halt his advance. “Hold on, Royce. It’s been a long time. Don’t you think we’re moving too fast?”

  “No,” he said. “I think we’re running late, about five years late.”

  “I never thought of it like that.”

  “Well, think about it.”

  He moved to kiss her and this time she let him. Elita tried to analyze their situation, but found it hard to concentrate on anything except his mouth as it moved down her neck. Still, a nagging doubt lingered.

  “I bet Nettie fixed us a great lunch,” she said in a ragged voice. “Aren’t you hungry?”

  He lifted his mouth long enough to murmur, “Yeah, but not for food.”

  She hated times like this, times when her heart and mind wer
e at war, times when desire battled common sense.

  Royce’s hands skimmed her shoulders.

  She took a quick step back, breaking his hold on her.

  “What’s the matter, Elita?” His eyes echoed the confusion in his voice.

  “Nothing . . . it’s just that . . . .” As she fumbled for words, Elita glanced over his shoulder. The first drops of rain began to fall. “It’s raining. We’d better shut the door.” She pushed past him, grabbed the handle to the patio door and started closing it.

  “Leave it open,” Royce said.

  “The carpet might get wet.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” He strode over, tied back the curtains, and pulled the glass door open all the way. “I like the storms, the way they come on fast, explode across the sky, and leave everything smelling clean when they move on.” He turned toward her. “Feel the wind, Elita. Isn’t it nice and cool? So much fresher than air conditioning.”

  She nodded. The Royce she’d grown up with had hated storms. They were too wild, too unpredictable for a young man who had a penchant for order and control. He used to tease her that her impulsive and rebellious nature kept their world stirred up enough.

  “What do you want to do, Elita?”

  “I don’t know. Do you still have that closet full of games? Since we can’t go skiing, we could play monopoly or Chinese checkers, or something.”

  Royce brushed the back of his hand across her cheek. “Or something sounds good.”

  The intensity of his gaze made her uncomfortable. She knew Royce wanted a signal from her, some action or word that would tell him whether his advances would be welcomed. Elita looked at the floor and silently commanded her heart and mind to stop fighting and come to a decision, hopefully one she wouldn’t end up regretting.

  “Is it the architect? Are you in love with him? Is that why you don’t want me to touch you?”

  Her head jerked up. “I never said I didn’t want you to touch me.”

  “Maybe not in words, but you keep pushing me away.”

  “It’s been a long time, that’s all. We’ve both changed.”