by Lynn Shurr
“We can take a break on the living room sofa. Mostly, I believe we need lots and lots of practice for the honeymoon starting today.”
Chapter Forty-Four
Julia learned that weddings possessed much in common with construction projects: delays, changes in plans, unexpected difficulties, and surprises both good and bad. Among the good, a cancellation at St. Mary’s. Too bad for Maria Remini that she’d caught her fiancé in bed with her maid of honor shortly after Remy placed their own wedding on the waiting list. By her special day the last weekend in June, Julia had solved her list of problems with an amazing crew of women: her mom, aunts, and cousins, Jane, Celine, and Adrienne Landry.
She left her mother’s home on Remy’s arm with the wedding party to walk the few blocks to St. Mary’s full of confidence that all would go according to plan—hopefully. They set out fifteen minutes before the ten a.m. ceremony once the arrival of the bus from Chapelle bearing some of the Broussards had been confirmed by phone. The morning heat remained bearable, and she clipped along on satin pumps sensible enough to survive the cracked sidewalks and a night of dancing. Her ankle-length gown with a fitted lace bodice and many diaphanous layers of skirts swung about her hips and did not drag on the ground or in the gutters they crossed. No gold around her neck, but a lace choker covered the slowly fading scar. She carried red roses accented with silver sprigs of olive leaves bound with white ribbons and her old Irish granny’s crystal rosary. Remy, tuxedo-handsome, had a square-headed iron nail she’d found on the grounds of the Queen in his pocket.
Because this was New Orleans, they somehow acquired a second line of well-wishers and a three-piece brass band—trumpet, trombone, and tuba—all the way to the church door sporting the white ribbons that proclaimed a wedding. Plain as a piece of pound cake on the outside, the doors to St. Mary’s opened onto golden vaults, crystal chandeliers, and a many-columned altar. Rossis and Broussards jammed the pews. Julia, as she processed down the aisle by Remy’s side noted and ignored that his grandmother had obviously been crying for some time before their arrival. Everyone else wore smiles, including herself. Her best burst forth when she placed Remy’s ring on his finger, his own design, a wide band in egg and dart, cast in platinum, and sporting a small black diamond in the center of each of the ovals, her own addition.
They sat for the lengthy communion and stayed to pose before the altar for formal photographs with their somewhat unorthodox attendants. Oh, not the women garbed in emerald green that honored her Italian and Irish heritage and looked good on both the many brunettes and the single blonde, but the assorted groomsmen, the last three drafted by their wives. Remy refused to have any Broussards, or to call old college friends he’d lost contact with long ago. So, the towering Merlin Tauzin stood next to Amelia’s tall, blond husband, then her two squat uncles, the lithe Marvin Holcomb next to Adrienne Landry’s gamekeeper husband, and last of all, billionaire Jonathan Hartz wearing his custom tux. If she’d had to rate the most uncomfortable, the prizes would go to Sal in third, Sammy in second, and Merlin in first place, though he’d been stroked into complying by Jane’s many suggestive compliments about how men in formal wear turned her on. They’d gotten a sitter for their boys and a room for the night at the Queen.
Julia and Remy emerged from the church into a hurricane of confetti and a flurry of dove wings as the brass band stuck up a Dixieland tune in hopes of getting tips in their open trumpet case. Remy slipped them a folded bill, and his bride suspected their appearance hadn’t been an accident. With everyone loaded into a bus or limo, they began the long journey to Chapelle fueled by champagne. It soothed Marv, hired as the Queen’s general manager, when he feared the Broussards remaining behind in Chapelle would devour all the antipasto before the rest of the guests arrived. “A second round of trays is being held back in the kitchen,” Julia told him.
The next snag occurred when they debarked at the Bayou Queen. Remy’s gran emerged with the front of her pink crepe de Chine suit drenched down the front. His parents followed with amused smiles on their faces. Julia’s mother and aunts, who had ridden with them as well as Lolly and Maxie, came out squawking they wouldn’t share a wedding table with Patty. Miss Lolly supplied the skinny on the why. “Patty suggested the wedding was planned in such a rush because you must be pregnant. All three of the Rossi women doused her with their champagne.”
His attack of nerves over, Marv stepped up. “I’ll make certain the place cards are changed. Don’t fret.” He put on a concerned face. “I see you’ve had a little accident, Miss Patty. Let me take you to a room, and we’ll fix that with a hairdryer. Plenty of time before dinner is served.”
“Oh, Marvin, you are queer but dear.”
“A queen of the bayou for the Bayou Queen,” Marv quipped
Patty failed to smile. “Truly, Remy has married into a violent family. I fear for his life.” Holcomb led her away before any of the Rossis brained her with an antipasto tray.
Remy shook his head. “I’m more likely to be killed by the Broussards.”
“My fault,” Julia acknowledged. “I thought the women could get to know each other. Maybe they did a little too well.”
“Forget about Granny, and let’s enjoy. I have iron in my pocket to ward off evil.”
“Somehow, I keep thinking that iron was meant to encourage the wedding night, but that’s my own take.”
“Which I wish we could begin now, but…” Remy led his bride to a throne-like chair worthy of Henry the Eighth sitting at the side of the vast, gleaming mahogany bar with its polished brass rail where Old Broussard held court. A sign on dark wood with gold block lettering hung above the mirror proclaimed it to be T-Fat’s Bar.
“Step right up. Da best selection of liquor in da parish and free tonight only,” the old man declared in a voice like a Bourbon Street barker. Guests lined up three-deep to take advantage of the offer after shaking his hand. “Here dey come, da bride and groom. Julia, welcome to my family.”
He pointed to his pudgy cheek, shaved clean for the occasion, and Julia dropped a kiss on it. “Thank you for making the bar and kitchen possible, Arnault.”
“You family now. Call me Nonc like Remy does. I tell you me, you got a smart wife here, Remy.”
Remy agreed. “All that and more.”
“Have a drink on me, and go pass a good time, eh.”
They settled on champagne as the most readily available and already poured at one end of the bar where red-coated bartenders worked frantically to keep up with demand. “Did we make a mistake having both an open bar and putting a bottle of wine on each table?” Julia questioned.
“To quote Nonc, you can ever have too much food or too much booze, no. I have the limos waiting to transport any locals too drunk to drive and the buses will take all of yours safely back to New Orleans. Slick and his boys are standing by to escort any drunk who doesn’t want to leave outside. I think we’ve got this nailed.” Remy fingered the iron in his pocket.
A shriek pierced the jolly, well-lubricated atmosphere, and Louisa, Sammy’s second eldest daughter, split screaming from the group of bridesmaids like a streaking green skyrocket. “You came! You came!” She wound her arms around Todd Whitcomb.
“Todd,” Remy said to his new wife as if he’d been betrayed. “You invited Todd.” He stared at Julia’s former apprentice nicely dressed in a suit and tie as if the man were a brain-eating zombie come for a good meal. “What if he came to cause trouble?”
Keeping secrets from each other they ought to have shared had separated them once before, and Julia realized she must act quickly. “Not intentionally. Louisa asked if she could have a plus one, and I told her to give the name to Marv. We kept what Todd did among the four of us so she had no way of knowing he wouldn’t be welcome. After all, the graffiti and holding up the contract really did no long-term damage.”
“Jules, you could have been killed when the scaffolding collapsed.”
“Not likely. I did have my lifeline and all your
strong arms to catch me. I never go up alone in case I run into trouble. Why ruin Todd’s life by pressing charges? He has a real passion for plaster.”
“You’re making excuses for him. He has a real passion for you.” Remy’s arm muscles hardened under Julia’s hand.
Todd found them in the crowd. Hesitant and jumpy at all the attention his date’s voice caused, he moved forward with Louisa clamped to his arm. As he approached, Remy took the nail from his pocket and put the pointed end between two fingers. “If we need help, I’m certain some of the Broussards are packing, especially Slick. I don’t see any signs of a weapon on Todd, but small things can do big damage.” He moved in front of Julia. Clearly, he’d fight for her again right here, right now.
Todd extended his hand, the universal sign of being unarmed.
“Put that nail away!” Julia whispered and stepped out from behind Remy’s sheltering body. She took Todd’s offered hand. “Good to see you again. Have you finished your studies?”
“Yes, got my master’s in May. The place looks great. You did the float work walls using brooms. I wish I could have been more a part of it. I’m looking for another apprenticeship in plastering. I don’t suppose…”
“No, it’s best you find another company, but I’ll give you a reference.”
“Thank you for overlooking my foolishness last summer. I’ve never met a woman like—”
Louisa tugged on his arm. “You’ve made your manners with the bride and groom. Now, come sit with me. The soup is being served. Dancing after the meal. An Italian band out of New Orleans for the first half, then a switch to Cajun for the second part of the night.”
“I’m not sure I can do either. But, Jules, Mrs. Broussard, will you save one dance for me?”
“Only one.” Remy pocketed the nail. “Good luck charm,” he explained, but the tone of his voice said otherwise. “Go and enjoy Louisa’s company and the dinner. We have a chef from New Orleans.”
Indeed, waiters swarmed from the kitchen designated in gold lettering as Arnault’s Eatery with trays of small soup cups. Louisa staked her claim on Todd’s arm again and pointed him in the right direction.
“We should take our seats too.”
They got through the soup course, the pasta and shrimp alfredo, baked redfish in salsa, herbed lamb chops, and zucchini parmigiana, right down to the sorbet to cleanse the palate for the dolce of sugared almonds, wanda, little boxes of nougats that could be taken home if desired, and of course, the wedding cake, white and gilded like the hotel itself and topped with sugar doves.
Marv skillfully orchestrated the many toasts and speeches interspersed throughout the courses, consulting his list and tapping each contributor when their turn came. Many simply wished the bride and groom evviva gli sposi, long live the newlyweds, or similar sentiments in Italian or Cajun French. Uncle Sal’s eyes filled with tears as he described Julia’s childhood and her talent with plaster from an early age and wished them happiness and many children. Sammy’s speech was similar, but ended without encouraging numerous offspring.
“Will it ever end?” Remy whispered to Julia as he responded to yet another toast with a raised glass that he barely sipped.
She replied, “You wanted an Italian wedding, you got it.”
Marv announced, “Let the music begin.”
At last, the couple mounted the grand staircase with its garlands of red, green, and white. As Remy led Julia through the central double doors of the room on which she’d lavished such care, she glanced up and saw the gold and while plaque on the wall above the entrance, Julia’s Ballroom.
“Oh, Remy. I think I’m going to cry, and I so rarely do.”
“Please, don’t. That’s not my Jules.”
She held back the tears with a blinding smile.
They entered to a drum roll from the band set up along one wall and moved to the head table before the arched windows. Every facet of the four chandeliers sparkled, casting their glitter on the parquet floor. Golden brocade settees lined the walls interspersed with bandy-legged Louis the Fourteenth tables and chairs for four. Palms in alabaster jardinières added color and the spice of red carnations filled the air. Best of all, Julia’s perfectly plastered walls shone like marble. If she had dreamed of a wedding as a girl, this would be it.
Their first dance as man and wife might have been to some corny old Dean Martin song because she’d left the choice up to the bandleader, but Remy twirled her out and brought her back again into his arms in what she suspected to be a Cajun dance move. All she wanted to do was rest her head on his shoulder and close her eyes as Remy guided her around the hall.
Julia swore she could hear the swish of hoop skirts as they circled, interrupted with a hint of jazz music now and then. If she opened her eyes she imagined soldiers wearing the uniforms of three wars might be lining the walls enjoying the music. But no, her relatives stood there with money and checks to stuff in the borsa, the satin purse her Aunt Rosa made and insisted she wear, for a dance with the bride. Remy’s family, determined to uphold Cajun customs when their music started, handed out straight pins to attach bills to her veil for the same honor.
Strange that she was the one who felt such affinity to this place when Julia knew Remy would always be the romantic, the visionary in their relationship. She’d supply the practicality, plastering over any small cracks, repairing the cornices chipped over the years, helping to build an edifice of marriage that would stand as long and be solid as the Bayou Queen.
A word about the author…
Once a librarian, now a writer of romance, Lynn Shurr grew up in Pennsylvania Dutch country. She attended a state college and earned a very impractical B.A. in English Literature. Her first job out of school really was working as a cashier in a burger joint. Moving from one humble job to another, she traveled to North Carolina, then Germany, then California, where she buckled down and studied for an M.A. in Librarianship.
New degree in hand, she found her first reference job in the Heart of Cajun Country, Lafayette, Louisiana. For her, the old saying “Once you’ve tasted bayou water, you will always stay here” came true. She raised three children not far from the Bayou Teche and lives there still with her astronomer husband.
When not writing, Lynn likes to paint, cheer for the New Orleans Saints and LSU Tigers, and take long road trips nearly anywhere. Her love of the bayou country, its history and customs, often shows in the background of her books.
You may contact Lynn at www.lynnshurr.com, [email protected], or visit her blog—lynnshurr.blogspot.com.
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