Her Cajun Valentine
Vee Michaels
Her Cajun Valentine
Copyright 2012
By Books to Go Now
For information on the cover illustration and design, contact [email protected]
First eBook Edition –February 2012
Printed in the United States of America
Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, any place, events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created from the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously.
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Other Books by Vee Michaels
Water Cooler Whoopie
Anita’s Menage
Christmas Delivery
Philosophical Fling
A Little Bit Cocky
New Years Resolution
Her Cajun Valentine
As Nabirye stepped inside her cubicle at YoDoIt Software, she spied a single, red rosebud in a vase on the corner of her desk. Attempting to ignore the rose and the card, she rounded her desk and flipped on her computer.
The small gifts she’d received the last four Fridays in a row evoked equal parts anticipation and dread. With Valentine’s Day a week away, she figured she ought to do something about the notes and flowers before her admirer wasted more money on her. She opened her email. As messages downloaded, Nabirye prioritized the tidy piles on her desk.
“Knock knock,” someone said.
Nabirye glanced up. “Hey Anita, how was the conference?” Anita, a pale, petite, blonde-haired, blue-eyed beauty, was Nabirye’s physical opposite. Nabirye, a native Ugandan, was raven black, five foot ten inches tall and large boned. Smiling, Anita stepped into the room and sat in the chair across from her. “Good. Busy. Tiring. How were things around here?”
“Quiet with you guys gone.”
“I see you got another gift from your secret admirer.” Anita picked up the card.
Nabirye sighed. “It appears that way.”
“Are you getting frustrated?”
“It’s flattering in a way, but kind of creepy.” Nabirye hadn’t pursued trying to discover who her secret admirer was because she was afraid she’d be disappointed. She suspected the gifts were from Robert Thibodeaux in accounting. He’d always been attentive and held her gaze too long.
While there was nothing wrong with Robert, she didn’t feel that zing of attraction in his presence. Besides, she’d been counseled by her adoptive parents to date within her race and considered him off limits. Secretly she hoped, but doubted, the gifts were from Armondo, a sveltely sexy, dark-skinned Account Representative.
Anita picked up the card, “May I?”
“Knock yourself out.”
Nabirye focused her attention on her email while Anita tore her card open.
“Aw. That’s sweet.”
“What now?” Nabirye asked.
“He gave you a two hundred dollar gift card to Nordstrom.” Anita made quote marks with her fingers. “It says ‘Treat yourself to an outfit that is as beautiful as you are.’”
“Let me see that.” Anita handed it over. As usual, it was signed, Your Secret Admirer. “Two hundred dollars? That’s crazy.” After her mother had died of AIDS when Nabirye was three years old, she’d lived in a Ugandan orphanage for eight years until distant relatives in the U.S. had taken her in. The large, extended family resided in a small three-bedroom house where money was scarce. Nabirye couldn’t fathom spending that much money on a single outfit.
“The guy’s a big spender, so have fun shopping.”
Nabirye tossed the gift card on her desk. “I can’t accept this. I have to return it.”
Anita frowned. “Maybe it’s time to ferret out your man.”
“Good morning.” Armondo called over the top of Nabirye’s cubicle.
Their eyes met briefly and Nabirye’s pulse jumped. She searched for a sign the gift was from him. “Hi.”
“Hey Armondo”—Anita pushed up from her chair—”I need to talk to you about the DelMarco account. Armondo stopped in Nabirye’s doorway. He towered over the diminutive Anita as they discussed the details of a sale.
Nabirye tried not to stare. The charismatic ex-model with smooth blue-black hair and dark chocolate skin would never need to go to such lengths to attract. More attractive women than she had swooned in his wake. No doubt he would be attracted to tiny, blonde women like Anita, not Amazons like herself.
Without a backward glance, Anita and Armondo sauntered off. Disappointed, Nabirye decided it was time to end the little game of secret admirer. But how? She preferred to talk to whoever it was away from the office.
Using a piece of her stationery she penned the following:
Dear Secret Admirer:
Meet me for dinner tonight at Casa Del Pueblo. I’ll wait for you in the lobby at six p.m.
Nabirye
She stuffed the note in an envelope, wrote Secret Admirer on it then taped it on the corner of her desk next to the rose.
For a week the note lay untouched. Her rose came into full bloom and began to wilt. Coming into the office on Valentine’s Day, Nabirye braced herself.
Upon seeing her desk, she stopped short in her doorway. The scent from her rose lingered, but the rose had been replaced by a six-inch-wide sunflower, her favorite. Next to it was a red box with a ribbon. Her note was gone, and Nabirye’s stomach tumbled. She picked up the card.
Dear Nabirye,
The sunflower reminds me of you.
Your Secret Admirer
Still, her admirer withheld his identity. Holding out a sliver of hope that her admirer was Armondo, Nabirye debated whether to wear her special-occasion dress. She reasoned if her admirer wasn’t Armondo, she’d be rejecting him and that wearing her finest would be unkind.
Almost sure she’d be returning it, she stashed the unopened gift in her purse.
After work she rushed back to her one-bedroom apartment. She settled on the corn yellow, sleeveless sundress she’d bought from a specialty store that imported handmade African products. The sundress showed off her muscular frame without being too sexy. Her tightly curled, black hair created a fuzzy inch high cap on her head.
At 5:50 p.m. Nabirye entered the lobby of Casa Del Pueblo.
With its golden archways and teal walls, it created a festive mood. The bold colors reminded her of Africa. She hoped the cheerful decor would soften the blow she’d likely be delivering. She scanned the lobby. A family paid the cashier while another couple waited to be seated.
Nabirye settled on a vacant bench and waited.
When 6:05 rolled around, she checked the parking lot for her mystery co-worker. At 6:15 she got a table for one and ordered lemonade. Staring into a menu she mulled over her next move.
“Nabirye!”
Recognizing Robert’s voice, Nabirye cringed then attempted to make her face impassive before she looked up. “Hi Robert.”
“Sorry I’m late. I got stuck in a meeting and didn’t want to come in work garb. I didn’t have your cell phone or anything.” Light red tinged his cheeks. “I’m babbling.”
As he spoke, she marveled over his transformation. Gone were the tie, gray sl
acks, and thick glasses. Instead, he wore a blue-and-red, short-sleeved polo and a dark pair of jeans. His sandy-blonde hair, normally flat on his head, was styled into peaks.
“I was worried you’d already left. Can I join you?”
Nabirye realized she’d been mute. “Uh. Sure.”
When he reached for a chair, his shirtsleeve slid up revealing a surprisingly muscular arm and a curvy, colorful tattoo. Before Nabirye could see what it was, he’d moved and the tattoo was hidden from view. Shaking off her curiosity, she reminded herself that she needed to tell him to stop leaving her gifts.
“Have you ordered?” he asked.
“Just lemonade.” How had his marine-blue eyes escaped her notice?
“Dinner’s on me.” He picked up the menu. “Do you know what you want?”
“You don’t have to buy me dinner.” Glasses. He normally wore round John Lennon glasses. She refrained from giving him a compliment that could be taken as flirtatious. Instead, she leaned back in her seat putting distance between them.
Robert smiled faintly but his eyes were sad. “You’re disappointed.”
“I’m sorry, but you’re, well … white, for one thing. I just never pictured myself with a light-skinned person.” She wasn’t good at this. Having suspected the admirer was Robert; she should have been ready with a rejection speech.
“It’s okay.” His shoulders sagged. “A lot of people are uncomfortable with interracial relationships. I just didn’t imagine ...” his voice trailed off.
You are one of them, Nabirye mentally finished the sentence. She didn’t want to explain that her aunt and uncle had taught her it was wrong, and that she was so grateful to have been taken in by them that she would believe and do just about anything they wanted. She wrapped her hand around the lemonade. “So how do you like working at YouDoIt?” It was a lame change of topic.
Robert frowned. “It pays the bills.” He drummed the tabletop with his fingertips before asking, “You’re from Uganda right? How long have you been in the U.S.?”
“Eleven years.” She felt fortunate to be in the U.S., to have a job, and a roof over her head. Having been given opportunities few orphans had, she’d vowed to get ahead and to help those left behind. That was one reason she attended college at night after working all day.
Taking a steadying breath, she thrust the Nordstrom’s gift card and the unopened gift across the table. “I can’t accept these.”
He placed his hand atop hers arresting her movement. Surprised by a tingling sensation, she snapped her gaze up.
“If you don’t want them, give them to someone else or donate them to charity.” His expression registered between hurt and dismay. “Nothing is worse than taking back an unwanted gift.”
“Sorry. It’s a lot of money. I ... didn’t want you to break the bank.” Nabirye withdrew her hand, leaving the card and the gift on Robert’s side of the table.
Robert’s brows drew together, and his mouth tightened to a straight line. “Listen, I wouldn’t have—”
“Can I get you something to drink?” The waitress interrupted. Robert twisted toward her and ordered a soda. As he turned, Nabirye spotted his tattoo. It was a flaming black violin with red strings. When the waitress asked about their dinner orders, Robert queried, “Still want to have dinner? Just as friends?”
Nabirye didn’t like prolonging the rejection, but felt refusing dinner would be impolite. “Do you?” she asked.
“Of course.”
“Okay then,” Nabirye said, satisfied that she’d already delivered her bad news.
They ordered their meals. After the waitress left, Robert asserted, “I wouldn’t have given you the gifts if I couldn’t afford them.”
“Why be so secretive about your identity?” Nabirye asked.
“Just exercising a little creativity. It’s the romantic in me.” He winked then leaned back in his chair. The polo shirt showed off his powerful chest. That coupled with his confidence surprised Nabirye, and her stomach did a little flip.
“Well, thank you for the attention Robert. I’m flattered.”
“If we’re going to have dinner, call me T Deaux. All my friends do.”
“Tea Dough? Like bread dough, only tea dough?”
Robert chuckled. “T stands for tiny; I was the youngest of four boys. And Deaux, Dee—E—A—U—eX, is the last syllable of my last name. So T Deaux is short for Tiny Thibodeaux? It’s Cajun. Sometimes I forget I don’t live in Louisiana any more.”
“Oh, so you’re Cajun?”
“Oui, oui, cher.”
“That’s French.”
“French and Cajun.” He grinned.
Nabirye turned the name over in her head. It didn’t fit Robert the accountant. She admitted she didn’t know him at all. “T Deaux. Got it.”
Nabirye moved her lemonade from one spot to another while she struggled to find something interesting to say. “So, were you in Louisiana when Katrina hit?”
“Yes.” His eyes took on a faraway look. “That was bad. That’s when my family moved up here to be near my cousins. I could have stayed but ... my parents had lost enough.”
“Do you miss it?”
He nodded. “A lot. Do you miss Uganda?”
“Parts of it yes, parts of it no.” They’d both lost their homes, and that connection somehow comforted her. The tension in her shoulders eased.
“I’m guessing you have several brothers and sisters.” T Deaux squinted at her. “Wait it’s coming to me … four sisters and three brothers.”
In spite of herself, Nabirye laughed. “Not really. Well sort of.”
“Sort of? I’m sensing a story here.” T Deaux slanted toward her.
“Um. Biologically I’m an only child. But since I moved to the U.S. I’ve lived with cousins. They are like brothers and sisters. Five girls and two boys, so you were close. What about you? Any sisters?” She’d forego talking about the orphanage.
“Nope. It’s too bad too. I think I missed something growing up.”
“It is better that trials come to you in the beginning, and you find peace afterwards.”
T Deaux cocked an eyebrow at her. “Okay. I’ll buy that.”
“It’s a Ugandan proverb.”
“It’s a good one.” T Deaux’s smile lit up his face. “We have a lot of Cajun sayings too. They’re in French or Cajun-French.” He paused. “You’re very pretty. You remind me of a sunflower.”
Nabirye glanced down.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
“It’s okay.” Shifting the conversation away from her, she said, “I noticed a violin tattooed on your arm. Do you play?”
T Deaux lifted his shirtsleeve then glanced at the tattoo and sighed. “No. I tried to learn it, but I seem to lack the required fire in my fingertips. I love to listen to it though. Do you play an instrument?”
Nabirye shook her head. “I’m afraid not.” In Africa there’d been a lot of group singing, music, and dancing, but in her American home playing an instrument, singing, and dancing were discouraged. With so many people in the house, they kept the peace by listening to their iPods. She’d fallen in love with Etta James and Aretha Franklin. “You don’t play violin. Do you play anything else?”
“I guess you could say I play my voice.”
“You sing?” T Deaux was getting more intriguing by the minute.
“I’m the lead singer in a band called The Cajun Peekons.”
As he said ‘Cajun Peekons,’ T Deaux’s face brightened. It seemed his accounting job was a way to get by, as he’d mentioned. “The Cajun Pecans. As in the nut?”
Again T Deaux laughed. “Peekon means thorn. We went with the name Cajun to be obvious out here.” He gestured widely. “We went with the term for thorn because we’re doing edgy Cajun. We mix several styles. We’re a bluesy, rock, Cajun group.”
“So this group formed out here and not in Louisiana?”
“Sort of. My brother and I were in a band in New Orl
eans. We split from our other band members when we moved. We found two other musicians here and formed a new band. My bro’s our drummer.”
“So you enjoy yourselves.”
“Oh yeah.”
“Do you have a violinist?” Nabirye gestured toward his arm.
T Deaux nodded. “Only Brian likes to call it a fiddle.” He rolled his eyes, and Nabirye got the feeling there was friendly banter in the band.
“I’d like to see you sing.” As the words tumbled from her mouth, Nabirye wished she could reel them back in.
“Well, if you really want to see us, you’re in luck. We have a gig in”—he checked his watch—”two hours. You’re welcome to come as my guest.”
Nabirye nearly choked and was relieved when the waitress appeared with T Deaux’s drink.
After they’d ordered, T Deaux asked, “So what’s Africa like? I’ve always wanted to go there.”
Her strongest memories—of loneliness, hunger, hard work, and illness—were hardly dinner-table conversation. Recalling the stench and cries of dying children, Nabirye fought a grimace. She sipped her lemonade then said, “It was hot. There were big insects and a lot of snakes.”
“It sounds like the South.”
Nabirye grinned. “I would like to go back someday.”
“So would I.”
Nabirye answered his questions and asked her own. His family had roots in the Deep South. His mother was a June Cleaver type, who worked in the home, cooking and cleaning. He’d played sports and attended Louisiana University. As T Deaux shared information about his life, Nabirye found herself divulging more than she’d intended.
The more they spoke the more interesting Robert, or rather T Deaux, became. His luminous blue eyes danced when he spoke about Louisiana and his music. To his credit, his eyes didn’t wander south or stray when an attractive female was near.
When they’d finished eating, Nabirye analyzed her situation. T Deaux seemed to be a clean-cut, educated, all-American guy with a twist. He had everything to offer, while she struggled to get by. She wondered if his attraction to her was simply because she was different. With her tar-colored skin and odd accent, she was a curiosity.
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