Bayou Brides

by Linda Joyce

  Table of Contents

  Excerpt

  Praise for Linda Joyce

  Bayou Brides

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  True American Music

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  A word about the author…

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  His mesmerizing blue-gray eyes

  drew her farther through the open window. A sensual smile slowly rose on his lips. He winked.

  A bluesy 12/8 beat thumped in Nola’s chest. The entire world melted away. A daydream took over. Just the two of them promenading down the long drive, like it was in antebellum days. He, in cutaway tails, and she, twirling a parasol and coyly giggling at something clever he said.

  The illusion was abruptly shattered. Her sister grabbed the back of her shirt and yanked her inside the room. “What!” Her daydream had popped like a string on an overplayed guitar.

  “Get in here.”

  “Why?” Her perfectly wonderful dream had been cut short.

  “You were about to fall on your head. I gotta go.” Biloxi headed for the door. “I want to meet this guest.”

  “You’re a married woman. A mother of three,” Nola hollered at her. “Hussy! Strumpet! What will I tell my nephews and niece?”

  “Darlin’, a woman can look. Come with me? You’re single. You can touch,” she teased.

  Touch him? No. He was too…vivid, too real. Virile. Oozed with sensuality. Just too male.

  The man made her hear the blues. In the best possible way.

  Praise for Linda Joyce

  “With her rich imagery and complex characters, Linda Joyce captures the flavors and rhythms of modern southern romance. Her books go on my keeper shelf so I can return to them again and again, like dear friends.”

  ~Melissa Klein, author of Out of Bounds

  ~*~

  “When I read Linda’s books, I am swept away. Linda writes with such emotion and clarity, you can’t help but fall in love. Her books are a refreshing escape!”

  ~Taylor Anne, author of Smoke and Mirrors

  ~*~

  “Southern writers have their own unique vibe; Linda Joyce conveys that oh-so-genteel, tradition-bound warmth and familiarity with her Fleur de Lis romance series…”

  ~Susan Coryell, author of A Red, Red Rose

  ~*~

  “Linda Joyce is the master of emotional impact and epic storytelling.”

  ~Kathy L Wheeler, author of Color of Betrayal

  Bayou Brides

  by

  Linda Joyce

  Fleur de Lis Series, Book Four

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Bayou Brides

  COPYRIGHT © 2017 by Linda Joyce Clements

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

  Cover Art by Kim Mendoza

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Champagne Rose Edition, 2017

  Print ISBN 978-1-5092-1770-0

  Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-1771-7

  Fleur de Lis Series, Book 4

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to my mother,

  Chieko Fukuhara Brannan.

  She was a mix of Macy Lind and Deidre Dutrey,

  and though she was Japanese,

  she spoke perfect English…

  well, maybe with a hint of a New Orleans accent.

  Acknowledgments

  No book of mine is published without the help from supporters. I am extending a BIG thank you to Mr. Allen Cruthirds, a firefighter at NOFD Fire Station Engine 35, for the information he provided about how the City of New Orleans decommissions and sells off old fire stations. Not only is he a fire fighter, but he’s worked his way through the City’s process and owns such a property. I also understand he’s an artist, and I look forward to seeing his work the next time I’m home. Just so you know, in Bayou Brides, the community center Nola is leasing from Emile is that of retired fire station.

  Author Goldie Edwards is always kind to me, beta reads to keep me on course, and supports me in so many ways. Thank you, Goldie. I value your friendship very much.

  I am very grateful for author Melissa Klein and author Rachel Jones for their constant support of my writing. We meet once a week to trade pages and critique. Their input has helped improve my story and help me grow as a writer.

  To Cheryl Walz, my behind the scenes support, with her Chicago Style book and English Teacher background, thank you. Also, she catches some of my funky word choices and challenges me with, “Are you sure that’s the word you want? Here’s the meaning…” and she’s always right. I appreciate that she helps me continue to learn.

  Linda’s Lovelies, my street team, who share on social media and help other readers to find my books, Big Hugs!

  To Barbara Hackel and Linda Bass for their continued support of reading, reviewing, and spreading the word about my writing, I am very grateful for your continued support.

  Hugs and gratitude to author Gina Hooten Popp. We met when I was first learning to write and she’s always been cheering in my corner…and cheering me up through the challenging times in my life.

  There are three men and a “boy” in my life who do so much behind the scenes for me. I rely on them and appreciate their continued encouragement. The “boy” is General Beauregard, my writing buddy, cookie mooch, and constant reminder that sometimes I must get up from the computer and stretch my legs—of course, that means he wants to take a stroll outside. As for the men, one is Gene Horton. He and his wife, Carolyn, whom we lost in December 2016, have been good friends for many years. Thank you Gene.

  To the man who’s known me all my life and still tells me he’s proud of me. Thank you Calvin Brannan. I love you very much.

  The final man is my darling husband, without whom, I would not be able to do all that I am able. He attends to all sorts of details, like keeping my website functioning, joining me at events, even serving up food at book signings, and his patient and undying love is what makes my life so full. I’ll love you forever.

  True American Music

  Saxophone wails,

  washboard scratch,

  drums beat percussion.

  Dobro twang,

  bass guitar licks,

  harmonicas howl.

  Juke-joint piano,

  spoons click,

  fiddles and accordion groove.

  Soulful hollers evolved into lyrical sound,

  Sex, h
unger, work, love—

  life’s rhythmic celebrations.

  Three-chord progressions

  in endless improvisation.

  12-bar blues.

  ~Linda Joyce

  Chapter 1

  Irritated, Nola Dutrey grabbed a pillow and flopped on the padded bench in front of the floor-to-ceiling window in her bedroom to catch a breeze. Sitting, she scanned the sheet music for “The Look of Love” and kept a one-eyed lookout for Momma who insisted they visit all the vendors at the Bridal Extravaganza taking place on the grounds of Fleur de Lis. Momma had said, “You’re twenty-eight, and at that age, the first female in the family with no marriage prospects.” That wasn’t exactly true—there had been a couple, but she just hadn’t found “the one.”

  Reading the song lyrics on the page, she paused. “Will the right man ever look at me just like that?”

  Sighing, she reached for a freshly fried beignet dusted with powdered sugar on the plate beside the bench. “Well, until then, I have you.” As she licked her lips, the lecherous grin of Emile Broussard popped into her mind. She shuddered, refocused on the sweetness of her treat, and then sang a few lines of the lyrics.

  A cool March breeze rippled the sheer curtains in the bedroom, reminding her of stories about swishing petticoats from antebellum times. Musical notes floated on the air from the string quartet playing in the gazebo on the side of the house. Dappled light through the trees and the blooming spring flowers added the perfect touch of romance to day one of the event. Her sister and Cousin Branna had selected the best time to host the event—after Mardi Gras and before Easter.

  Below on the lawn and extending down the long driveway, white tents dotted the landscape like white-capped mountains—a foreign landscape in southwest Mississippi. Florists, photographers, musicians, and wedding planners showed off their wares and services to prospective brides. One area had been reserved for food vendors, and they drew in the crowds. Aromas of garlic, sausage, and fried shrimp tickled her nose. She took a second bite of the beignet, savoring the melt-in-your-mouth flavor.

  Nola sighed. She was home to do her family duty, but wishing she were in the lounge at Arceneau’s rehearsing for her upcoming tour—a summer of festival hopping and singing with different bands—rather than hiding in her room with the stink of Momma’s words wafting around her. A pang of envy hit her. “Just look at them. Brides-to-be, their mommas, their entourage. Giggling like drunk cackling hens.” They mingled and sipped champagne in their pastel Sunday finest. The bridal show could pass for an Easter-hat parade, given the extravagance of many.

  But most of them came because they had a groom on a string attached to their engagement ring and a wedding loomed in their future.

  She sighed. Maybe her family was right. Maybe she was the problem. All around her the connection of true love beat as palpable as any living heart. She wanted that. Forever love that could weather anything.

  But no man had entered her life and evoked within her the same deep emotion as when she sang a love song—like the one she had to finish rehearsing to sing in just a bit.

  “Damna—” She stopped when Great-Grandmother Grace’s tsk! floated on the air. Though the older woman had passed about ten years ago, G.G. Grace reached down from heaven to keep her in line whenever she visited Fleur de Lis. “I apologize. No cussing. Got it.” She never dared back talk to the ethereal spirit.

  Stuffing another throw pillow behind her back, she squirmed to get comfortable. “But G.G. Grace, why spend buku bucks on a fancy shindig to hitch yourself to a man when there’s barely a fifty-fifty chance of marriage success?” Never would she stand a chance of winning that debate with anyone in her family. There hadn’t been a divorce in the family yet. That put a boatload of pressure on her to choose well. So what if all the other women in the family had married by twenty-eight?

  Until her time came, she chose music. Romantic love and the ballads written about it were songs she thoroughly enjoyed singing. She hugged the sheet music to her chest. Love songs had triggered a deep yearning that had stayed with her since she was sixteen. Over the years, she’d tripped into “like”—G.G. Grace had called it “puppy love.” Twice she’d landed in “infatuation land.” But never had she met a man that enflamed a smoldering burn deep inside her. She wanted to fall in love. Deeply. Madly. The kind of love that churned up her life the way a hurricane churned up the sea. Southern breezes hadn’t blown that man in her direction yet.

  If and when she ever fell truly in love, it would be forever. Like a swan, she would mate for life—but her family didn’t know that about her. They called her a butterfly, flitting around, never landing anywhere for long, but she didn’t see the need for wasting time developing a relationship with a man when intuition told her it wouldn’t last. And she didn’t do one-night stands.

  Nola closed her eyes. It would take a game of truth or dare before she admitted she was jealous of the brides visiting Fleur de Lis today. To avoid Momma and the swath of envy pricking her conscience, she had snuck upstairs to hide. Momma’s invitation was a command, not a request. Deidra Dutrey, always a force to be reckoned with, usually got her way. Why hadn’t Momma set her sights on Linc to settle down? He was older. He would carry on the family name.

  If only life were a musical…

  Downstairs, the screen door slammed and drew Nola’s attention.

  “Nola. Bridgette. Dutrey. You can’t hide from me!”

  Wrapping her long hair in front of her, Nola melted onto the floor between the bench and her bed. Angels willing, she had a chance of avoiding her sister, even if it was only one in a million.

  Biloxi stomped up the stairs. “I know you’re in here.” She opened the door, and the hinges squeaked. “I came to remind you to be at the café before three to sing.”

  Nola held her breath as she watched her sister’s Louboutin shoe-clad feet step in her direction.

  “Ohhhh,” Nola groaned, looking up from the floor. “Okay. You found me.”

  Biloxi pointed to her watch. “It’s two now. You have less than an hour. This is your contribution to Fleur de Lis. When people hear you sing, they’ll see the added value of hosting their party here—we have the famous Nola Belle singing to melt hearts.”

  “But I’m hiding from Momma.” She pushed to standing.

  Biloxi raised an eyebrow.

  “I didn’t mean to lie. I wanted her to leave me alone, stop groom-shopping for me. I only said I had an interest in someone, and she got it into her head that this unnamed someone is about to give me a ring. Now she wants to promenade me through the bridal show.”

  “No, sister, you blurted out that you were interested in getting engaged.”

  Nola shrugged. She’d made the audacious announcement under pressure. It was a dim-witted idea that popped into her head, and then the words came flooding out of her mouth. “She thinks finding my soul mate is like any other kind of shopping.”

  “I’ll try to keep Momma occupied, but you have to show up to sing. She’ll know where to find you at three.”

  “What do I do? Momma doesn’t care who I marry, just as long as I get a ring on my finger, set a date, and walk down the aisle that ends with an ‘I do.’ I’ll tell her the man has met another woman and says I’m not”—she lifted her fingers, making imaginary quotation marks—“the one.”

  Biloxi shook her head. “Don’t involve me in your lies. I won’t be a party to your deceptions. Now get—” She walked to the window and stood to the side, out of view. She pointed to the black limo pulling in front of the house by the fountain. “Wonder who that could be. The limo companies participating in the show are already here.” After puffing out a soft whistle, she said, “Look at that.”

  Amused by her sister’s gawking, Nola sank down on the bench, flipping her waist-length hair over her shoulder. Framed by the bedroom window, a man in a well-fitted, dark peacock-blue suit exited the limo after the driver—she recognized her neighbor—opened the door. He stood inches above t
he driver, making him taller than six feet. Several women mingling near the fountain cast long appreciative looks in his direction—they practically drooled. Nodding slightly, he smiled and then adjusted his pink striped tie, taking a moment to flirt with the women. The fact that he wore a pocket square caught Nola’s interest, a man who paid attention to small details. Nice.

  Or had someone dressed him that morning? Like a girlfriend or wife.

  Sauntering in the direction of the house, he radiated relaxed ease. His smooth stride reminded her of the majesty of a fine stallion. Male grace and full of strength. Light shone on his blue-black hair. “Fine looking,” she murmured as a warmth ignited in her chest. Maybe he’d be interested in helping her out of her mess. After one look at him, anyone in her family would believe love had—at first sight—caught her in a cast net. For a second, she considered shouting for her father to grab his gun for a shotgun wedding. Yes, the man was that hot. Could give a girl the vapors.

  She stretched and leaned out the window to catch the last glimpse of him as he began climbing the front steps of Fleur de Lis.

  He paused and looked up.

  Their gazes locked.

  His mesmerizing blue-gray eyes drew her farther through the open window. A sensual smile slowly rose on his lips. He winked.

  A bluesy 12/8 beat thumped in Nola’s chest. The entire world melted away. A daydream took over. Just the two of them promenading down the long drive, like it was in antebellum days. He, in cutaway tails, and she, twirling a parasol and coyly giggling at something clever he said.

  The illusion was abruptly shattered. Her sister grabbed the back of her shirt and yanked her inside the room. “What!” Her daydream had popped like a string on an overplayed guitar.

  “Get in here.”

  “Why?” Her perfectly wonderful dream had been cut short.

  “You were about to fall on your head. I gotta go.” Biloxi headed for the door. “I want to meet this guest.”

  “You’re a married woman. A mother of three,” Nola hollered at her. “Hussy! Strumpet! What will I tell my nephews and niece?”