by Liz Talley
Conflicted. Yeah, that was the word to describe him.
He shook his head and cranked the old truck, cringing at the loud rumble as the engine fired into the empty lot. He pulled out and grabbed his phone as he stopped at the first stoplight. Lou expressly forbade him to talk on the phone when he drove, and normally he didn’t, but he dialed Vidrine’s cell number.
“Yo?”
“I’m coming out. You need any beer? I can stop at Trucker’s.”
Mason hushed a few guys. “Nah, man. We got you covered. You remember the way?”
“Yeah.”
“Need some bro time, huh? I saw the pics.”
Something clicked in Waylon’s brain. At first, he wasn’t intuitive enough to recognize what that click was. Then the click became a smack upside the head. Was it bitter irony? Or some sixth sense? “Yeah. Definitely need some bro time.”
He hung up, pulled the truck to the side of the highway and tapped his phone screen. Took him ten seconds to find his profile on Facebook. Ten seconds more to find the pictures of Morgan sitting in Hayden Verdun’s lap, poking her tongue down his throat.
“Ah, hell no,” he whispered to himself as he scrolled through the pics. Morgan laughing as Hayden chugged a beer. Morgan kissing Hayden while he grabbed her ass. Hayden’s face nuzzled between Morgan’s breasts.
Bile rose in Waylon’s throat.
That son of a bitch.
There had been one picture where Hayden had looked directly into the camera while a very drunk Morgan lay across his lap. His eyes spelled out victory. Waylon knew then and there those pictures posted for everyone to see had been meant for him alone.
Checkmate.
Waylon pressed the button to exit out of Facebook. The pictures had been taken before tonight. Probably last night after the pep rally. Morgan had disappeared after the traditional bonfire saying she was tired and wanted to go to bed early. Waylon had been beat himself and had wanted to hit the sack early, too. He’d turned his lamp off at nine o’clock while Morgan had gone out and probably screwed the guy Waylon had thought he’d beaten on the field that night.
Guess Hayden had the last laugh.
Waylon punched the steering wheel and felt his knuckles bruise. Inside, his stomach churned and he thought he might vomit. Then his heart squeezed so tight it felt like it might burst. He swallowed the betrayal, refusing to allow tears to form.
Why had Morgan done this?
He laid his head on the wheel and tried to grapple with the situation. He thought he and Morgan were okay. Maybe not as goggle-eyed over each other as they’d been back in the spring, but he didn’t think she’d cheat on him like this—with that asshat Hayden Verdun. Waylon knew he’d been in a bad mood lately. Things had been tough with Coach, with the recruiting crap and with Lou staring at him with big blue eyes full of expectation. The pressure had built around him, making him feel as if he couldn’t breathe. The only place he didn’t feel the pressure was on the field—the one place where his mind left and his body did what it was made to do—run, block, hit, veer, explode.
But this? God, it hurt.
Waylon clenched the steering wheel, his throat raw from the unshed tears. He didn’t want to feel this way. It made him weak. Made him feel like half a person.
And it pissed him off.
Hayden Verdun. Waylon lifted his head and put the truck in gear, allowing the anger to flood his body mixing with the pain of Morgan’s infidelity. Hayden had threaded the needle under his skin long ago, and he had little doubt that this had been absolutely intentional. If the pain ripping through his chest was any indicator, Hayden had succeeded in his mission.
Waylon passed the turn that would take him out to Vidrine’s camp and pointed the wheels toward home. He didn’t want to be around anyone right now. Didn’t think he could handle it without drinking too much and spoiling for a fight. If he encountered Hayden or Morgan right now, no telling what he might do.
He glanced at the phone. He wanted to call Morgan and ask why. He wanted to call her a perfidious bitch, another word he’d learned for the ACT. He wanted to hit someone. He wanted to curl in his bed beneath the quilt his grandmother had made him right before she died. Right before his mom and dad died. Right before his world went to shit.
He tasted the tears before realizing they’d fallen. The steady yellow lines of the highway blurred and he felt a tightness in his chest he hadn’t felt since his parents’ funeral.
Wasn’t being Waylon Boyd, a four-star, blue-chip recruit just peachy?
At that moment, he hated his life.
* * *
“WHERE’D YOU PUT my book, Lou?” Lori called, her head stuck in the back of the new crossover SUV Lou had just signed the papers on at Ville Platte Motor the day before. Her sister’s butt wiggled as she poked through the three overnight bags sitting in the hatchback of the slightly-used but new to them GMC Acadia.
“In the side pocket of your bag,” Lou said, shoving a gear bag with Waylon’s workout crap beside the old leather duffel her father had used.
“Oh, yeah. Here it is.” Lori withdrew a paperback with a dancer on the cover. Might have been innocuous but for the blood pooled around the dancer’s slippers.
“Is that blood?” Lou asked.
“Uh, yeah, she’s a vampire.”
Well, that explains it. Lou shoved the hatch downward, latching it before glancing over to where Waylon stood away from them talking on his phone, stabbing the air with his finger and likely saying some words that would have gotten him a dose of vinegar five years before. Lou still didn’t like those words but nowadays she picked her battles.
Instead of being another adventure, the short trip to Baton Rouge would be about as fun as a tetanus shot. Waylon’s pointed anger hadn’t necessarily gotten worse over the past few weeks, but it hadn’t gotten better. Waylon remained close-lipped about the Coach Landry situation, saying only he didn’t want to talk about what had happened between them. When she pressed, he lashed out, stating Landry was his coach, nothing more.
“Way, we need to get on the road if we’re going to make it by lunchtime. Mrs. Dufrene is expecting us.”
Waylon nodded, said a few more words and then pocketed his phone. They were expected at ULBR for the start of Waylon’s official visit by late afternoon, but Picou Dufrene had insisted Lou and the family come to the Dufrene family plantation Beau Soleil for lunch. Somehow she couldn’t make Abram’s mother see that contact with a coach’s family was a bad idea.
Picou kept saying it had nothing to do with Waylon. Nothing to do with football.
And deep down, Lou knew the woman was telling the truth because this didn’t have to do with anything other than Lou. Somehow, Picou had gone bloodhound and picked up on the scent…the potential…between Lou and her son.
She sighed as Waylon wordlessly opened the passenger door and dropped into the seat without another word.
“Everything okay, Way?” Lori asked from the backseat.
“Yeah. Fine.” Waylon jabbed earbuds into his ears and tapped something on his phone, effectively silencing the women in his life.
Lou sighed then went back to double-check the house was locked. Pleasure bubbled up when she turned and jogged back to the car sitting shiny and as pretty as a daffodil in their driveway. It was under a year old, traded in by an older woman who decided she wanted a sedan after all. It was immaculate, with leather seats that still held a new-car scent. The price had been right and Lou felt almost giddy at the prospect of driving it down to Baton Rouge.
They backed out of the drive, sped through town, and less than an hour later, took the exit off I-10 that would take them to the old plantation outside the small town of Bayou Bridge. The landscape around the exit was flat and just like any other exit off an interstate—gas stations, fast food and economical motels—but after traveling a few more miles, Lou discovered a charming town with antiques stores, bed-and-breakfasts and tiny restaurants hugging the bayou that wound through the town. Aft
er crossing the steel bridge and noting another one lining the banks of the Bayou Teche, Lou turned onto the highway that followed the graceful curves of the bayou twisting through St. Martin parish. The periodic glimpse of the water showed off enormous live oaks draped with lacy moss.
Lou slowed after a few miles and searched for the entrance to Beau Soleil, finding it rather easily since it announced itself with huge wrought-iron gates nestled into an oak-lined drive. The drive twisted much like the highway they’d followed to reach the antebellum home.
“Look, a cemetery,” Lori said from the backseat.
Sure enough a small, gated graveyard stood to the side, flanked by trimmed rosebushes.
“This was a family estate, and many plantations and older homes have their own cemeteries,” Lou said, slowing down almost respectfully as they passed the consecrated ground.
“Thank you, tour guide,” Lori said.
Waylon didn’t take the earbuds from his ears, but Lou noted he perked up and looked around, which was a little bit of a relief. He’d been in such low spirits over the past week she wondered if she would have to take him to a doctor or something.
“Oh, cool,” Lori breathed when the house came into view.
It was a huge rambling pale yellow, white-trimmed building with a wide porch and gleaming windows. There seemed to be no distinct style to the house, but altogether it was impressive and charming.
A horseshoe drive curved around to a walk, but a gravel parking lot sat to the right. Lou pulled in.
Waylon finally tugged the earbuds out of his ears. “Are they rich or something?”
“I don’t know,” Lou said, turning the car off and looking through her purse for some lipstick. “Does it matter?”
He shrugged, wound the cords of the headphones around his phone and sat it in the cup holder.
“You’re leaving your phone in the car?” Lori asked, jabbing her head between the two front seats. “I thought it had become part of your arm.”
He gave her a withering look but said nothing. Lori laughed. She was in a good mood as usual, and if anyone could jar Waylon from his doldrums, it was his younger sister.
“Come on, guys. We can’t stay long, but I figured if we didn’t stop by, Mrs. Dufrene would send the state police after us.” Lou swiped her lips with some color and climbed out. She tugged the new blouse she’d bought a few days ago down, smoothing her hands over the jeans Mary Belle had insisted she buy to go with the top. They were faded and sort of hip. Made for looking good—not work.
Picou met them on the porch and clasped Lou’s hands. “Welcome, Boyd family, to Beau Soleil.”
Lou smiled because the greeting sounded a lot like the greeting the dude on Fantasy Island gave to guests. She’d loved catching the reruns of that show on cable when she was younger—and maybe Beau Soleil was like the island. Maybe she’d find something she was looking for here.
Or from here.
“It’s so pretty,” Lori said, swiveling her head. Lou dropped Picou’s hands and did the same, taking in the black rockers on the freshly painted porch along with the swaying baskets of ferns. Beautiful stained glass topped each ceiling-to-floor window and the beveled glass door held the etching of a crane.
“Thank you, honey. Annie—she’s my new daughter-in-law—and I just updated the outside of the house. I think it turned out nicely. Now y’all come on in. Lucille and I made my grandmother’s recipe for pralines this morning.”
The inside of the house was dark and smelled like burnt sugar. Lou’s eyes followed the sweeping staircase that rose up to the upper floors. The woodwork was beautiful and the chandelier that hung over the foyer had to be original with ruby crystals strung between the traditional clear drops.
A rotund black lady pushed past a swinging door, her smile as wide as the Mississippi. “Well, here you all are. I’ve been waitin’ to get a look at—”
Picou shook her head and gave the woman a sharp look.
Lucille’s brow furrowed. “—this young man who is such a good baseball player.”
“Football,” Waylon said.
“That’s what I meant.” Lucille grinned and shot an apologetic look at Picou.
Lou chose to ignore the situation. She could see what was going on as plain as day.
“You’ve been waiting to meet him?” Lori asked with a funny look.
“Lord knows I do love a good ballplayer,” Lucille said, grabbing Waylon by the arm. “Come on in my kitchen. I know what a boy like you likes, and I make a mean cherry pie. You like cherry pie?”
Waylon laughed and Lou felt something warm spread near her heart. She hadn’t heard him laugh in so long.
“Who doesn’t like cherry pie?”
Lucille cackled. “Wouldn’t trust ’em myself.”
Waylon disappeared into what Lou presumed to be Lucille’s inner sanctum.
“She’s always been partial to athletes. Abram was always her favorite. I think it’s because they eat a lot.” Picou’s brow wrinkled and merriment skipped in her odd violet eyes. Today Abram’s mother wore a sort of kimono threaded with bright orange silk. It was gaudy but the stitching looked well done—sort of like its wearer.
Lori moved toward the kitchen. “Think I’ll have some cherry pie, too. Is that okay, Lou?”
“Or course.”
“Hope Lucille lets you in,” Picou said.
Lori stopped, turning with widened eyes.
“She’s joking, Lori,” Lou said, with an aside look at Picou who nodded.
“I knew that,” Lori said with a smile before pushing through the still-swinging door.
“She’s an adorable girl.” Picou waved an arm indicating Lou should pass her and go down past the kitchen door toward an open doorway.
“A little gullible,” Lou said, heading past a gleaming dining room replete with crystal chandelier, dark antique sideboards and a huge table set with Haviland Limoges china. Lou’s grandmother always drank her tea from that pattern. Of course, she’d only had one cup and saucer she’d bought in a Salvation Army store. The contrast was marked.
“Your home is lovely. How long have you lived here?” Lou asked, stepping into a warm sitting room. Her dad would have called it a den, but there was nothing den-ish about it. Bright with lovely careworn rugs, the room had a bank of windows and one whole side of bookshelves filled with leather-bound masterpieces and dog-eared paperbacks. An overstuffed couch centered the room in front of an ornately carved fireplace over which an oil hung of what Lou presumed to be the Dufrene boys.
“It was built before the war by my great, great, great-grandfather Henry Laborde who won the land in a card game.” Picou said “war” in that age-old Southern way that meant the Civil War. “Originally, it belonged to the Chita Mauga Indians and there are still sacred mounds on the acreage surrounding the estate. Been in my family since that time and much of the woodwork and flooring is original. She’s much like an old whore, still holding on to her days of grandeur. My own painted lady.”
“Beautiful,” Lou said, glancing out the window to the back patio with its wrought iron furniture and flowering urns. Trees shaded the large expanse of backyard that extended all the way to the Bayou Teche. From here, Lou couldn’t see the narrow water, but she knew where it lay from the way the massive live oaks draped along the horizon.
“Yes, a singular beauty,” Picou said, settling into an armchair. “So you tell me about you and your siblings. Abram’s told me something of you, but he’s a man. They usually stick to facts.”
Lou wondered again why she was here—at Beau Soleil chatting with Abram’s mother. She shouldn’t have come, but the older woman had spent the past week on the phone insisting she accept the personal invitation to tea that had arrived in the mail several days ago. A flipping invitation with Picou’s monogram blazing across the heavy ivory vellum. Tasteful, warm and very adamant.
“Um, I’m just a regular sort of girl,” Lou said, perching on one side of the couch. From her vantage, a young Abr
am stared at her from the painting with quizzical green eyes and overly large hands. He had to have been about thirteen years old, a boy already growing into a man but clinging to wisps of childhood. His expression wasn’t fierce as his older brother’s nor was it as devilish as the younger. Merely uncomfortable sitting in the ladder-backed chair.
She lifted her eyes from the painting and found Picou watching her. “Come now, Louise. I’ve never thought of you as regular. You’re much more interesting.”
Lou shifted on the sofa and flipped through her mind looking for the mental notecards on conducting polite conversation in the middle of awkward social situations. Nothing emerged, so she licked her lips and pointed to the painting. “Are those all your children?”
Picou nodded. “Except for Della.”
“Della?”
The older woman waved. “Sally. Sally is Della.”
Lou tried not to let her confusion show.
“Della was taken from our family when she was but three years old. The family gardener concocted a kidnapping scheme with a former employee of my husband’s company. For over twenty years, most believed her to be dead. Nate found her, or rather she started asking questions about some things that didn’t add up. We were reconciled nearly a year ago.”
“That’s crazy,” Lou said, trying to take in the concept of losing a child and then regaining her as an adult.
“It is. It’s been very difficult on Sally. Della. I don’t even know what to call her at times. The woman who raised her, the woman she still calls family, is grievously ill and in hospice in Houma. Sally teaches in Lafourche Parish and only visits me on occasion.”
Lou felt something tug at her heart at the sadness in the older woman’s eyes. Both she and Sally had seemed to get on well when Lou had met them, but, of course, that had been only once.
“Actually, it’s part of the reason I invited you to come to Beau Soleil,” Picou said, picking up a book lying on the side table next to her chair. “You are of the same age, and she needs a friend.”
