Acadian Waltz

by Alexandrea Weis

  “Check his blood pressure,” Jean Marc interjected. “Yes, I know. It’s Sunday.” He nodded to my uncle. “I can come back later if you want, Jack.”

  My uncle jumped forward and took Jean Marc’s arm. “No, you come over here and help me. Nora can pass us the tools while we’re down in the drink.”

  I gawked at my uncle.

  “Wonderful!” Jean Marc exclaimed, clapping his rough hands together. He directed his eyes to me. “Shall we?” He motioned to the wheelhouse.

  Uncle Jack placed his hands about my shoulders as he shoved me inside the darkened wheelhouse. “Come on, Nora T. Make yourself useful, girl.”

  * * *

  Uncle Jack and Jean Marc had finished fixing the oil leak and were covered with more grime and dirt than I had thought humanly possible. The men climbed out of the lower part of the boat and made their way into the late afternoon sunshine up top. I followed dutifully behind, carrying the toolbox I had been assigned to take down below.

  “Now, that should take care of the leaking oil,” Jean Marc commented as he wiped his greasy hands on a rag. He turned to me, keeping his face devoid of any emotion. “Thank you for your help, Nora.”

  “Sure, no problem,” I mumbled.

  “Well, this calls for a beer,” Uncle Jack proclaimed, going in search of his ice chest.

  “No, Uncle Jack. You don’t need any more beer,” I chastised as he disappeared into the wheelhouse. I looked over at Jean Marc, my eyes pleading with him to agree with me.

  “Ah, really, Jack, I don’t need a beer,” Jean Marc insisted.

  Uncle Jack appeared from the shadows. “Yes, but I do.” He popped the top off a bottle with his opener and took a long sip from his beer.

  “I should be going,” Jean Marc muttered.

  I put the toolbox down on the deck. “I need to get back to the city.”

  “All right then, Nora T,” Uncle Jack said. “I’ll see you next week. You can tell me ’bout your date with that doctor.”

  I noticed a slight smirk creep across Jean Marc’s thin, red lips.

  Uncle Jack nodded to the younger man. “Jean Marc, I’m gonna finish up below. See Nora gets to her car all right.”

  “I don’t need Jean Marc to walk me to my car,” I blurted out.

  “Nah,” Uncle Jack protested. “It’s late and Jean Marc can make sure you’re safe.” Uncle Jack did not even wait for my reply. He simply turned around and headed back into the wheelhouse.

  I was going to voice my refusal when Jean Marc stepped in front of me.

  “Come on, Nora, I’ll walk you back to the parking lot.” He quickly headed to the gangway.

  I picked up my purse from the boat deck. “No, really, Jean Marc, I’m fine.”

  He narrowed his disconcerting eyes on me. “Your uncle asked me to see you to your car, and that is what I intend to do. So come on.” He waved his hand for me to follow him and then he walked down the gangway.

  I sighed and fell in step behind him. As I made my way across the gangway toward the dock, he held out his hand to me.

  “I’m all right,” I grumbled, refusing his assistance.

  He pulled his hand away. “I was just trying to help.”

  “Well, I don’t need your help.” I started down the dock. “I’ve been coming here since I was a kid. I know this dock just as well as you,” I added over my shoulder.

  “I was there when you were running all over these docks as a kid. Remember?”

  I did not say anything and kept on walking.

  Suddenly, his hand was on my arm and he jerked me around with such force that it took my breath away.

  “What’s your problem? Every time we see each other, you have been nothing but rude to me. What happened to the fun little girl I knew?” he growled.

  I shrugged off his hand and took a step away from him. “I grew up, Jean Marc.”

  “Only on the outside, Nora. I can’t understand why every time we see each other you look at me with such loathing.” He shook his head. “Your uncle is a good man, and he—”

  “He’s a good worker, you mean,” I snapped.

  He placed his hands on his hips and glowered at me. “Is that it? You think I don’t give a damn? You think I like playing boss man around here, or is this tension between us attributed to something else entirely?”

  His filthy body shimmered in the afternoon sunlight, accentuating the numerous muscles in his arms and chest. I quickly diverted my eyes to the blue water beside the dock.

  “Why don’t you just admit it? Your family has always hated mine,” I declared, folding my arms across my chest.

  “You still think after all these years that me, or any of my family, give a damn about your mother and what she did?”

  “Your father never forgave her for marrying his brother,” I replied, raising my voice.

  “My father always spoke fondly about your mother, even after she left Uncle Etienne. No one ever blamed her for leaving the man. Hell, he was never any good. Everyone in Manchac knew that.”

  I glared at him. “But you always held it against her and me.”

  “What? How could I hold it against you when you never knew my uncle?” Jean Marc impatiently waved his hand at me. “He shot himself years before you were even born.”

  “He shot himself because my mother left him for my father. You and your whole family hate her for that.”

  “My uncle shot himself because he was dead drunk while trying to clean a loaded shotgun. Etienne Gaspard never wanted to kill himself.”

  “That’s not what my mother heard at the funeral,” I argued.

  “That was thirty-five years ago, Nora. Who in the hell even remembers that far back?”

  I held my head up and, deciding it better not to press the matter further, proceeded toward the parking lot.

  “Nora, I’m not the one hung up on the past here,” he shouted behind me. “You had better get rid of that big chip on your shoulder if you plan on spending any more time around my docks. And if you ask me, you’re acting like a spoiled brat!”

  I spun around to face him. “You arrogant piece of shit! Where in the hell do—”

  “Piece of shit?” he bellowed, coming up to me. “What kind of language is that for a good girl like you? They teach you to speak like that in the city?”

  “I’m not a little girl, Jean Marc. Stop treating me like one.”

  He moved in closer to me, his face inches from mine. I could smell the sweat and grease on him as the heat radiated from his skin. For a moment my stomach did a few nervous flips, but then I had to remind myself of my feelings for Jean Marc.

  “I know you’re not a little girl,” he whispered to me. “It’s been real damned obvious to me for quite a while that—” He abruptly stepped back from me. “Just watch your language. You shouldn’t be cursing like that. Your momma wouldn’t approve.”

  I snickered at him. “Then you don’t know Mother; foulest mouth this side of the Mississippi, even if she does still curse in French.”

  Jean Marc raised his head and scanned the dock surrounding us. “Well, best you not be following her example. You’re better than that, Nora. You’ve always been better than that.”

  I tried to think of some pithy reply, but my nerves were so rattled that nothing came to mind. Instead, I turned on my heels and quickly headed for my car. Once inside the safety of my Honda, I looked back to see Jean Marc still watching me from the edge of the parking lot. I gunned the engine and peeled out of the lot, wanting to put as much distance as possible between the infuriating Jean Marc Gaspard and me.

  Chapter 3

  The next day at work I forced myself to forget about my encounter with Jean Marc, and once again basked in the thrill of my coming date. I tried to think ahead to Saturday night and let the usual female matters of what to wear and how to do my hair and make up cloud my judgment. I even decided to consult with an expert about my approaching evening with the good doctor.

  “John Blessing?” a wiry,
silver-haired man commented as his penetrating blue eyes studied mine. “I don’t remember him.”

  I took in my secretary’s frown. “Come on, Steve. He was a resident here. Tall, kind of thin, but good-looking. He has brown hair and deep gray eyes. Surely you would remember him?”

  He leaned across my desk with a naughty glint in his eyes. “Nice body?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t seen much of it.” I picked up a memo on my desk.

  “You didn’t look hard enough.” Steve stood from his chair, pressed out the slight crease in his dark pants, and came around to my side. He sat on the edge of my small chrome and faux wood hospital issue desk and folded his arms.

  Steve Seville had a killer smile, sharp, aquiline features attributed to a Nordic ancestry, and a slender but muscular body that he trained rigorously at a local gym.

  “So?” he asked after several seconds of silence. “When is the big date?”

  I tossed the memo back on my desk. “Saturday. He wants to take me to Lucifer’s.”

  “That’s a good first date place. Casual.” Steve nodded approvingly and then stared at my dark green scrubs. “I think the twins should come out for this one,” he stated, pointing to my bosom.

  “Actually, I thought I would go casual but conservative. I was thinking maybe a pantsuit with my hair up?” I glanced up at him, grimacing with self-doubt.

  “No way.” He stood from my desk and eyed me up and down. “Tight dress to highlight your curves, hair down, and soft shades of brown for make up. Makes you look mysterious when you wear brown eye shadow, and it highlights the blue in your eyes.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yes, sleep with him.” He walked toward my office door. “All doctors want sex on the first date,” he proclaimed.

  “No, all men want sex on the first date.”

  Steve faced me, grinning. “Not the ones I’ve been out with lately. If this one doesn’t work out for you, there’s always next year. I know dead people who have more sex than you.”

  “I shouldn’t have said anything to you.” I picked up a chart sitting on the side of my desk.

  “Too late.” His face became serious again. “Back to business. You have a nine o’clock with Peterson about the infection rates on the hip implants this month, and I’m supposed to remind you about the quality management meeting tonight at six.”

  “Thanks.” I sighed heavily as I began to go through the chart in my hand.

  He reached for handle on my office door. “I’ll see what I can dig up on your Dr. Blessing. Never hurts to check them out first.”

  “All my mother needs to hear is that he’s a doctor and she’ll be booking the reception hall, no matter what type of felony he may have committed in the past.”

  “Oh, God…mothers.” Steve rolled his eyes dramatically. “Wait until this guy meets yours.”

  * * *

  The following Saturday, John arrived promptly at seven dressed in a casual pair of black slacks and a freshly ironed white Oxford shirt. His hair was still wet and he smelled of crisp cologne. His stainless steel watch gleamed against his right wrist.

  “I like your outfit,” he declared as he took in my clingy, black, low-cut dress. “Elegant and simple.”

  I shut my heavy front door with a thud. “And tight in all the right spots,” I remarked as his gray eyes lingered over my bosom.

  “You said it, I didn’t. But I’m a man who has learned how to appreciate the finer points of anatomy.” He held out his arm to me.

  “Spoken like a true physician.” I took his arm.

  “Man first, physician second. But the physician part of me is definitely off tonight. Look.” He flourished his hand over his outfit. “No beeper.”

  We started down the path to his car. “Should I feel honored?”

  He shrugged. “I just didn’t want to give the wrong impression on our first date.”

  “What wrong impression?”

  We stopped in front of his dark blue BMW, and he opened the passenger car door for me. “That what I do is who I am. Many people only see the title ’doctor’ when they look at me. But you saw me for who I am. I have to admit when I first noticed you in the ER waiting area, I thought you would be just like every other woman I had ever met. But you didn’t flirt with me or try to be someone you’re not when I drove you home the other night. You’re different from all the rest. That’s why I’m here.”

  I smiled into his handsome face. “Thank you, John.”

  He eyed me quizzically. “For what?”

  “For noticing that I’m different.”

  His eyes traveled down the length of my body. “Good thing for both of us you weren’t wearing that dress the other night. Otherwise, I might never have noticed.”

  He leaned in closer, and a flutter of excitement gripped my stomach.

  “Nora,” he whispered in my ear. “Perhaps you should get in the car so we can actually go on our date.” He stepped back from me and raised his head.

  I tried to discern what he was thinking at that moment, but his gray eyes lacked any hint of desire. His face was oddly detached.

  I quickly climbed into the waiting car, feeling a little let down by his reserved manner. Perhaps he was nervous. Not every man was as blatant with his emotions as the insufferable Jean Marc Gaspard. Maybe John Blessing was one of those men you had to get to know before he revealed his inner workings to you. How refreshing to meet a man who did not begin every conversation with a scowl, and whose eyes were not filled with a dark distrust. Funny, I remember thinking at the time, how Jean Marc’s aggravating idiosyncrasies had been seared into my memory.

  * * *

  We made our way in his fine German automobile through the heart of the Crescent City, along the old streets and into the Garden District. While we headed to the restaurant, John talked about his love of New Orleans homes and their unique architecture.

  “James Gallier, Sr. built several homes in the uptown area in addition to the former city hall off Poydras Avenue,” he explained. “He was renowned for his use of delicately carved cypress and the inlay of marble and tile in his long entrance halls.”

  “You’re quite an expert on the architecture around here,” I said, admiring his slender hands on the steering wheel.

  “Always loved New Orleans architecture, with its mix of French and Spanish influences melding together in a Caribbean-like climate. It’s one of the reasons I came here to study medicine and do my residency. The first place I went after moving here was Jackson Square. I remember being enthralled with the architecture around the square. It’s always been my favorite spot in New Orleans.” He paused and shifted the car down in the slowing traffic. “Everything in Dallas is new and filled with stainless steel and glass. Here everything is as it has always been for a hundred years or more.”

  “So are the people,” I insisted. “New Orleanians have a strange kind of Southern apathy. Progress is a dirty word, and instead of moving forward, sometimes I swear we go backwards.”

  “But it’s like any other large American city,” John objected. “The problems here are no different than any other place in the U.S.”

  “People here are different. They’re locked in to the land with a deep sense of tradition and obligation to the ways of things past. It’s that sense of holding on to the past that drowned the city after Katrina.”

  “But the past is comforting to many people,” he countered.

  “Comfort in the past is a luxury that holds people back from embracing the future. Schools without air-conditioning, houses without electricity, people without basic elementary education, and levees that failed when we needed them most. These are all things the love of the past has given us.” I paused and took in some of the run down homes we passed on our way down Prytania Street. “‘Embrace the past, but save room for the future,’ my father used to always say.”

  John pulled the car up to a red light. “He was an advocate for progress?”

  “He wanted to s
ee the city move ahead. He encouraged me to become interested in politics and current affairs when I was little. Dad believed it was important to be well informed. When I was a kid, he used to sit at the dinner table and quiz me on topics from the newspaper, on television—oh, everything and anything to stimulate my mind.”

  “What about your mother? Did she join in on those conversations?”

  My eyes went wide. “Mother? She used to think Dad and I were nuts to talk about such things at the dinner table. Claimed we gave her indigestion.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t become a lawyer,” he admitted as the light changed to green.

  “I wanted to follow in my father’s footsteps when I was younger and work side by side with him one day. But when I was fourteen, Dad got cancer and I put those ideas on the back burner. I had to spend a great deal of time taking care of him. My mother wasn’t any good at being a nurse. She freaked out at the whole sick husband thing.” I shook my head, trying to force those bad memories from my mind. “Anyway, when Dad was near the end he told me I should become a nurse. He said I cared, and he wanted me to do something with my life that would help people. But I didn’t want to be a nurse. I didn’t want to take care of the sick and dying, especially after my dad. Then on a field trip in high school, I found out about physical therapy and decided to study that in college.”

  “You could still go to law school. It’s not too late.”

  I shook my head and gave him a weak smile. “When my father died I lost my desire to become a lawyer, but I still like to keep up with current affairs. Makes me feel like he’s with me in a way.”

  “You two were close?”

  I sighed as I thought of my father. “We were the same. Mother was always foreign to us. She still is to me.”

  “I’m sorry. Must have been hard to lose your father at such a young age.”

  “It was, but after my father died, my Uncle Jack, my mother’s brother, was there for me. He has always helped me get through the tough times.”

  “What does your Uncle Jack do?”

  “He’s a shrimper in Manchac, and the complete opposite of my mother. He’s down-to-earth, practical, rational, and is more impressed by a man’s handshake than the size of his wallet.”