Acadian Waltz

by Alexandrea Weis

  I placed my hand over his fist. “No, Henri. Jean Marc is worried about you.”

  Henri shook his head slightly. “Not him. He…hates me. I…hate him…ever since….” His voice faded.

  I glimpsed the long scar down his right cheek. “Jean Marc is your brother. You should not say such things, Henri. He does not hate you.”

  “Old…habits…die hard.”

  Not wanting to pursue the subject further, I stood from the bed and returned to the chest of drawers.

  “Let’s get you changed and then see what your mother has made for you in the kitchen. She’s glad to have you home, Henri. Everyone is glad you’re here.”

  Henri just snickered, but said nothing else to me the remainder of the morning.

  * * *

  My first day at Gaspard House was spent getting Henri settled and meeting with the physical therapist who was sent to evaluate him for the home health portion of his recovery.

  Ms. Marie wandered in and out of the bedroom, helping me dress and feed Henri as best she could. But the sight of her son so debilitated took its toll. She could not spend much time in his room before her eyes began brimming with the tears, and I would have to shoo her away to find some other project about the house to occupy her mind.

  Uncle Jack was much more help to me, especially when it came to getting Henri’s tall body in and out of the bed. But I could tell by the discomfort in his blue eyes that such duties were reawakening painful memories, so I tried to do as much as I could on my own.

  Jean Marc, on the other hand, never made an appearance in his brother’s bedroom. By the time nightfall came and Ms. Marie brought Henri’s supper to the room, I decided to inquire about the missing member of the Gaspard family.

  “He’s been at the business all day, child,” Ms. Marie explained as she fed Henri small spoonfuls of jambalaya. “Dealin’ with budgets or some such thing. I’ve never had a head for the family business.”

  “Yes, I’m sure he’s been too busy to visit,” I reasoned, feeling slightly disappointed that Jean Marc had not come to see me.

  “Why don’t you take a break and get some fresh air?” Ms. Marie proposed. “I’ll sit with him a while.”

  “You’re sure?” I asked, remembering her crying bouts throughout the day.

  “I’m all right now.” She nodded. “Oh, I almost forgot. Your fiancé called the house earlier. He said your cell phone was off and wants you to call him.” She turned back and gently stroked her son’s cheek. “You run on, Nora T. We’ll be fine.”

  I left Ms. Marie with Henri and went upstairs to my bedroom to unpack. While climbing the steps on the wide oak staircase, I decided I would call John after Henri was asleep, wanting to postpone the inevitable argument that I was sure would take place.

  My spacious second-floor bedroom had three long windows situated in the east corner of the house, ready-made for taking in the early morning sun. The room was also filled with a slew of antiques. There was a hand carved praying stool in one corner and a dark oak dresser set next to the bathroom door. On the wall were assorted portraits of people long since dead. Men with thin moustaches and ladies in high lace collars stared back at me.

  My suitcase was sitting on the antique four-poster bed where I assumed Jean Marc had left it, but when I opened it, I discovered all my clothes were gone. I went to the intricately carved oak armoire next to my bed and found that all my shirts, jeans and a pair of black casual pants had been ironed and were hanging on linen-wrapped hangers. My extra pair of tennis shoes was on the bottom of the armoire. Across the room in the oak dresser, all my T-shirts, socks and underwear had also been neatly put away.

  “She spent the mornin’ doin’ that,” a familiar voice said from the doorway of my room.

  I saw Uncle Jack standing by the door, dressed in his worn blue jean overalls with his blue cap on his head.

  “She wanted to make sure your things were hung up proper.” He waved at the open armoire. “I think she was just preparin’ herself to go spend time with her son.”

  “She seemed awfully upset earlier today,” I commented as I closed the dresser drawer.

  “Yeah, she cried like a bébé this mornin’, but then I think her instincts took over.” Uncle Jack moved inside the doorway. “I saw her down there feedin’ him. She’ll be fine.”

  “I guess she just needed some time to adjust.”

  “What about you, Nora T? Are you adjusted yet? ‘Bout gettin’ married and all?”

  I glanced down at the ring on my left hand and my emotions gushed to the surface. “Oh, I don’t know what I’m going to do, Uncle Jack.”

  “That be the first step, girl. At least you’re admittin’ that you don’t know.” He nodded to the windows in my room. “Perhaps you should go and take a walk outside in the evenin’ air. You could go see Jean Marc’s place right down the path. He could use some company.” He stepped back through the doorway.

  I smiled at my uncle’s suggestion. “That sounds like a great idea.”

  Chapter 18

  The path to Jean Marc’s cottage was located between clumps of trees and green brush that led to Owl Bayou. I had not been down that path since I was a little girl, but somehow I remembered places along the way as I walked. There was a tree where I had swung from an old rope or the spot where I had caught my first turtle. Memories came pouring into my head, like water from a long dried-up spring. I was six years old again and the world was one big playground.

  Over the trees, the roof of the caretaker’s cottage came quickly into view. The faded terra cotta tiles, just like the ones on the main house, glowed in the light from the setting sun. Around me buzzed dragonflies, mosquitoes, and assorted black bugs the swamp seemed to produce in abundance. I quickened my step, not wanting to be a tasty morsel for the man-eating insects that were quickly swarming about my flesh. I was jogging by the time I reached the clearing in front of the house, and then I stopped, overtaken by the beauty of the cottage I remembered only as a run down hovel.

  It had been built as a smaller replica of Gaspard House, but it did not have the thick columns in front, and there was a screen-covered porch that wrapped around the entire first floor. Long, white french windows decorated the façade, while a red-bricked chimney rose from the side of the home. Bald cypress trees dotted the surrounding property, and their unique feather-like branches cast eerie shadows along the plaster-covered walls of the two-story structure. Owl Bayou flowed behind the raised cottage, and a small pier could be seen connecting the back porch with the dark water.

  The sting of a mosquito on my arm quickly distracted me. I slapped the pesky bug away and took off at a run for the safety of the screened porch.

  After I darted inside, the screen door smacked shut behind me while the old porch planks moaned beneath my feet.

  “Who’s there?” I heard Jean Marc brusquely demand from behind the white cypress front door.

  Instantly, he was standing in the doorway, wearing only a pair of faded jeans. His bare chest glistened with sweat in the late afternoon light and his dark hair was tossed about his head as if he had just tumbled out of bed. Then, I spotted the .9mm pistol in his hand.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked, his intense brown eyes filled with alarm.

  I stared at the gun in his hand. “No, everything is fine. I left your mother with Henri.”

  He glanced down at the gun. “Sorry.” He placed the pistol on a table near the front door. “Sometimes you have to be a little cautious out here.”

  I set my eyes on the planks beneath me, wanting to avoid staring at his naked chest. “I just thought I would get out and stretch my legs.”

  He came closer. “Picked a fine time. You know better than to go traipsing around the swamp at sunset. You would have been eaten alive out there.”

  “Very nearly was.” I scratched my arm where the mosquito had bitten me.

  He stepped back against the open front door and waved me inside. “Come in. I’ll see if I have somethin
g for that bite.”

  I walked in the door, making sure to keep enough space between his bare chest and my body as I passed him.

  Once inside the cottage, the rough planks on the porch turned into fine, highly buffed wood floors. A red Oriental rug covered the floor in an expansive living area just beyond the entrance. Atop the rug, a deep red leather couch and a rustic oak coffee table faced a massive red-bricked fireplace with a thick cypress mantle. Along the wall next to the fireplace was an entertainment center with a flat screen television, satellite receiver, and DVD player. Behind the living area, a straight polished oak staircase led to the second story.

  To the left of the stairs I could see into a wide gourmet kitchen with a built-in refrigerator, gas cooktop, and double ovens. In front of the kitchen was a small dining area with a walnut dining table and four high back, intricately carved walnut chairs. Another blue Oriental rug sat beneath the dining table, while a brass chandelier hung from the cypress-paneled ceiling above.

  “This is exquisite, Jean Marc. You really have turned this place around. I remember how it was falling apart when I was a little girl.”

  Jean Marc shut the front door with a bang. “Yeah, I put enough money into it. Cost me a small fortune to get this place into shape.” He walked past me to the oak coffee table. Spread out on the table were several stacks of papers and an array of manila folders. Jean Marc sat down on the couch and picked up a beer that had been sitting on the coffee table.

  “I’ve got a lot of work to do, Nora. Feel free to browse around on your own.” He took a sip from his beer.

  “Mighty neighborly of you,” I said, sarcastically.

  He motioned to the papers in front of him. “You would feel the same staring at this mess all day.”

  I ambled over to the fireplace and inspected the flowers, roses, and long intertwining vines carved into the mantle. Above the mantle were assorted pictures in silver frames. One caught my eye right away.

  In the picture a tall, older man held a small girl with pigtails in his arms, and beside the pair, a young man with black, wavy hair stood watching them. The older man was my father, happy and healthy years before his diagnosis of cancer. I could not have been more than six or seven at the time the photograph was taken.

  “That’s my favorite,” Jean Marc declared behind me. “We were on Jack’s boat. Jack took the picture. I remember watching you and your father and feeling so lucky just to be around the two of you.”

  I gazed at my father holding me in the photograph. “I cut off my pigtails when I turned twelve, thinking them childish. Now I wish I hadn’t.”

  Jean Marc chuckled. “Yeah, I still miss those pigtails.”

  I turned to him, holding the picture in my hands. “You used to always tease me about my pigtails. You were either pulling at them, or threatening to cut them off with your big knife.”

  Jean Marc sat back on the couch with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “You remember that?”

  “I remember that you were always mean to me.”

  “Not mean. I was just trying to make sure you didn’t turn into one of those sissy girls I hated from school.” He took another swig from his beer. “I wanted to make you tough. I’d say I was pretty successful.”

  I returned the picture to the mantle. “Maybe too successful.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  I turned back to Jean Marc. “Nothing.” I pointed at the beer in his hand. “Can I have one of those?”

  “No. You’re on duty.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Well, then, you’re too young.”

  “Jean Marc, I’m thirty.”

  He raised his dark eyebrows at me. “You’re that old!”

  “Just give me the damn beer.”

  “My God, you’re still bossy.” He waved to the kitchen. “In the fridge, top shelf.”

  I went to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door. To my surprise, the entire top shelf was stocked with Heineken Beer. I grabbed one of the green longnecks, found the opener hanging from a rope on the refrigerator door handle, and opened the bottle. I walked back to the couch and sat down next to Jean Marc.

  “You must really like beer,” I commented.

  He put his beer down and picked up a folder from the table. “I relax at night with a beer.”

  “How many?” I took a sip from my beer.

  He gave me a perturbed side-glance. “You’re very nosy all of a sudden.”

  “Haven’t seen that much beer in one fridge since college. I think you have more than one.”

  “Enough about the beer.” He directed his attention to the yellow manila folder in his hands.

  I noticed the word “Crawfish” scribbled across the top of the folder. “What’s that?” I asked, nodding to the folder in his hands.

  “Nora, you’re being a pest.”

  “All right. I could go back to talking about the obscene amount of beer you have in that refrigerator.”

  He sighed and shook his head. “It’s a quarterly report on the crawfish farm. Happy?”

  “What does the report say?” I tried to lean over his shoulder and grab a peek.

  “I don’t know; I haven’t read it yet,” he curtly replied.

  Jean Marc put the folder down on the coffee table, making sure to close it so I could not see the contents. “Nora, I have a lot to do. You’ve had your beer and seen the cottage; you can go back to the house and leave me to my work.”

  “What about my mosquito bite?” I complained, holding up my arm to him. “You said you had something for it?”

  “What, are you six again?”

  “Only around you.” I perused the folders on his coffee table. “Seriously, Jean Marc, what is this stuff? Maybe I can help.”

  “How can you help me, Nora?”

  I put my beer down on the coffee table. “I have to do my own budgets at the hospital. I know how to read a balance sheet and a P&L.”

  “Where did you learn how to read a profit and loss report?” he asked, eyeing me with a dubious smirk.

  “Dad taught me. I also used to help Lou during the summers at his store. He taught me the ins and outs of business.” I paused and playfully elbowed him. “Let me see if I can help.”

  Jean Marc took a moment, as if trying to make up his mind. “All right, here.” He picked up the folder marked “Crawfish” from the coffee table and handed it me. “What do you make of that?”

  Inside the folder I found a profit and loss statement for the first two quarters of the year. I gleaned over the actual versus projected sales, and then I reviewed the expenditures from the previous quarters. After several minutes I gazed up at Jean Marc.

  “You’re in deep trouble here.”

  “That’s one way of putting it.” He sighed. “What do you recommend?”

  I leaned in closer to his naked chest, acutely aware of the proximity of him, and I pointed at some figures on the report.

  “Your expenditures are too high, for one. Your health care and worker’s compensation fees have tripled in two years. So, there are a few options here. First….” And then I began going through the long list of options Jean Marc could implement to save his struggling crawfish farm.

  * * *

  Two hours later Jean Marc and I were still sitting on the couch. We had finished four beers between us, and the shade of night had unknowingly descended over the cottage windows.

  He scratched his head and glanced up from the legal pad he had been writing on. “You really do know your stuff. Any one of your suggestions would help cut the expenditures for a lot of the business. I could actually make a profit.”

  “You just have to rearrange some of your benefit and insurance plans,” I informed him, while moving a beer bottle out of the way of the notepad in front of me.

  Jean Marc’s eyes seemed to dance in the light of the living room lamps. “Then I could move out of the trawler business and go into farming shrimp, crawfish, and catfish full-time. That’s where the re
al money is. Trawlers have become too expensive. Between gas, upkeep, and insurance, the boats are getting impossible to keep going.”

  “What about the men who run those trawlers?” I questioned, knowing what Jean Marc had in mind would leave dozens of families without a breadwinner.

  “I plan on reeducating them. Teach them how to run the farms, harvest the farmed fish and shellfish. Maybe even let them get into sales. They would be a little resistant at first. All Cajuns hate change, but then when they see the potential profit for them and their families, they would be persuaded.”

  The enthusiasm in his voice was contagious, and I wished I could take part in his dreams, but I doubted that would ever happen. I had another’s plans to consider. “I think that’s a fine idea. I hope it all works out for you, Jean Marc.”

  Then, quite unexpectedly, Jean Marc leaned over and gently kissed me on the cheek. “Thank you, Nora.” He quickly turned his attention to the french window overlooking the front porch. “It must be late. I’ll walk you back to the house.”

  Unhinged by his kiss, I quickly rose from the couch. “I can find my way.”

  Jean Marc stood up beside me. “No, I’ll take you back; but do you think you could come over tomorrow night? I would like your opinion on a couple of other ideas I have.”

  “Sure,” I said, trying to conceal my excitement.

  He glanced down at his bare chest, as if suddenly realizing he was half-naked. “Let me just get a shirt.” He went around me and quickly bounded up the stairs two at a time.

  I listened as he rummaged around upstairs and within seconds he was back down the steps.

  He motioned to the door as he shrugged a pale blue, long-sleeved shirt around his broad shoulders. “Let’s go.”

  I stepped on to the porch and was shocked by the intensity of the night around us. It was pitch black, and I could not make out any of the landmarks I had passed on my way to the cottage.

  Jean Marc reached for my left hand. “Here, hold my hand.” He led me down the porch steps to the soft ground. “You’ll get lost if you don’t hold on,” he softly insisted.