by Sandra Hill
“ Which way does it point to promote bone-melting sex?”
She shook her head at his teasing. “Actually, there are some things, but we can discuss those later.”
“ Oh, boy!”
“ And, now that I think about it, a queen-sized bed might be best, placed catty corner with the footboard facing the door. It’s usually recommended that some type of wardrobe be placed at the bottom of the bed to slow the energy, but I’m thinking that your hope chest would look lovely there.”
“ Lovely.” He grimaced. “Whose bright idea was it to slow energy in bed, by the way? Not a healthy, full-blooded male, I’d be willing to bet.”
“ Are you going to argue about everything I suggest?”
“ Probably.”
“ In terms of enhancing your love life, we could create a romance corner in that southwest corner over there. Include some figurines of lovebirds or heart-shaped stones. Perhaps some crystals, as well.”
“ You can’t be serious. That sounds way too girly-girly for me. Besides, you set up some love shrine in the corner and my aunt is going to hot-tail it over here and insert some St. Jude statues as well.”
“ Isn’t St. Jude the patron saint of hopeless causes?”
“ Yeah,” he admitted. Then, “No romance corners.”
They walked back to the salon area. Remy poured cold soda into two glasses and motioned for her to sit at the galley table across from him.
“Tell me about this Feng Shui business and how it works.”
She took a sip of the cold beverage, which was refreshing, although the houseboat wasn’t hot, what with the breeze off the bayou stream and the overhead fan. The lapping of water against the boat, birdsong everywhere, a serenity that defied description .. . really, Rachel would be a fool not to recognize the charm in this place. In fact, one of the strongest assets Remy’s abode held was its placement on moving water, which almost always brought fresh chi. Hopefully, she would only build on the assets already here, not weaken them.
But as to his question. “When I first studied decorating in college, I was only interested in traditional methods. But I interned with Daphne Fields, an interesting woman in D.C. who practiced Feng Shui. I work with her now. Daphne taught me that Feng Shui is an ancient art with modern implications. It’s a way to redesign your home to redirect energy, the goal being harmony or balance. Does that make sense?”
“ Not yet. Keep going.”
“ It’s all about the yin and the yang, two opposite ends of the energy spectrum and how to bring them together. Light and dark, active and passive, hard and soft, male and female—it’s all a balancing act.”
“ Hey, I’ve heard of yin and yang. They’re sexual, aren’t they?”
She had to smile at his one-track mind.
Remy smiled back at her, and Rachel felt her world tilt on its axis. She feared that she was falling in love with this rascally Cajun.
Was this what was known as love at first sight?
Or love at first lust? Or had his wily aunt put a spell on her? Whatever.
Rachel was tempting the devil here, and instead of running for her life, she gave him a mental high-five.
Chapter 7
But then he discussed her butt
Remy stared at Rachel sitting across from him, and had to smile at the way her mind worked. He loved teasing her. He loved the way she turned bristly as a hedgehog at the least affront. He loved how she spoke so enthusiastically about her work. He loved the way her pink tank top with the butterflies on it hugged her body and displayed just the rise of erect nipples. He really, really loved the curve of her butt in those white calf-length pants. And, of course, he still loved those coral-tipped toenails.
Truth be told, he loved too many things about her.
“Stop looking at me like that,” she ordered.
“How’s that?” Uh-oh! Betcha I look like I’d enjoy jumping her bones, which I would.
“Like I’m a nine-course meal and you’re honing your knife and fork.”
She got that right. “That would be an apt description,” he said with a laugh. “As long as I’m not drooling.”
She exhaled with a whooshy sound of disgust. “You know, I don’t understand why you say things like that. I am not anything special, physically. Believe me, I’ve had that drummed into me for some time now.”
“Huh? Who’s been beating that drum?”
A light shade of red bloomed on her cheeks. “My ex-fiancé, David. He’s a plastic surgeon, and therefore an expert on perfection in the human form.”
More like an expert in dumbness. “I think you’re perfect.”
“Oh, puh-leeze. You just want to get laid.”
He winced at her crudity. “Sure I do,” he admitted, “but that doesn’t mean I’m lying about how perfect you are.”
“First of all, I have red hair. Curly red hair, when it’s not straightened chemically. That is a definite disadvantage in the beauty department. By my book, anyhow. I’ve been fighting it my entire life. Little Orphan Annie jokes, redhead jokes, you name it, I’ve heard it.”
“You have a point there,” he teased, “although I’m coming to admire red hair more and more.”
“Bull!” she responded.
More crudity. Did he bring that out in her?
“If you must know, my biggest flaw is . . . oh, God, I can’t believe I’m about to reveal this.” Her face turned redder.
“What?”
“I have a big butt.”
He stretched his neck as if trying to see around the table. “Stand up so I can check it out.”
“Not in a million years.”
He started to laugh then. He could tell she’d like to reach across the table and swat him a good one. But he couldn’t stop himself.
“It’s not funny. David bought me a Butt Buster machine just for that purpose. Not to mention all the other exercise equipment. God, I hate exercise. Do you like exercise?”
“Depends on what kind,” he managed to get out through his continuing laughter. Her ex must be one helluva guy. Even he knew enough not to buy a woman a Butt Buster, even if she had an ass the size of a Mardi Gras float.
“David gave me a different piece of exercise equipment for every holiday—Christmas, birthday, Valentine’s Day. And he had a schedule taped to the refrigerator detailing what routines to do, every day. It was for my own good, he said.”
He swiped at his eyes and tried to stop laughing. Why he should be so joyful at another man’s cluelessness defied explanation. Then again, no, it didn’t. He was happy that Rachel had been so unhappy with this fellow. He didn’t like the idea that she might be having regrets, might be considering going back to him. Man, oh, man, he headed down a dangerous road, and he knew it. Finally, he calmed himself and said as straight-faced as he could, “Seriously, Rachel, you have a very nice derriere. I noticed that the first time I met you.”
“You did not. What a liar!”
“Did so. Ask Luc.”
“You discussed my behind with someone else? Another man?”
“He’s my brother; so, that doesn’t count.”
“What kind of insane male illogic is that?”
He shrugged. “Bottom line: you have a bodacious butt. Flaunt it, baby.” Hey, if she could be crude, so could he.
She practically gurgled with indignation.
“Shouldn’t we be getting back to this Feng Shui business?”
“Absolutely,” she said, obviously glad to change the subject. Really glad. What was it with women and their fixations on the size of their asses. Men didn’t worry about things like that. Now the size of what hung loose on the other side—that was another thing altogether.
What he should do is cut this conversation short and send her on her way. Then he should either 1) go get drunk, 2) go get laid, 3) go get drunk and laid. All in an effort to cut short this progressively increasing obsession he was developing for this woman. So, what did he do? He told her, “Tell me more about Feng Sh
ui.” As if he cared a rat’s ass how she decorated his houseboat! He just wanted to keep her here a little bit longer, to hear the sound of her voice, to look at her nipples.
But she bought it, and immediately launched into her Feng Shui 101 spiel. “There are so many beneficial things Feng Shui can do for a person. Improved health. Better sleep. Revving up a business. Relaxation. More control of one’s life. Starting a new career. Selling a home. Getting a job. Romance.”
“Romance? How can Feng Shui help a person with romance?”
“Well, suppose you have a woman sitting in the wrong position at a cocktail party, let’s say, facing away from the door, and she’s facing east with the guy she’s trying to attract facing north. This means she is in the most aggressive position, and he’s in the quiet position, which would be intimidating to most men. She should face north, and the man should face west.”
Huh? What a load of you-know-what! What the woman should do is wear sheer stockings, high heels and a short skirt. Then, sit her fanny down facing wherever and cross
her legs. Or spread her legs, a la Sharon Stone, if she has the nerve. That would get the guy’s attention, guar-an-teed. But what Remy said was, “How interesting!” He was no dummy.
Just then, his cell phone rang. A quick check of the Caller I.D. disclosed it was his DEA contact, Larry Ellis.
“Excuse me for a minute. I have to take this call.”
“Sure, I need to take some measurements anyhow.”
He went outside on the deck for privacy. “What’s up, Ellis?”
“A deal is going down tonight. A barge will enter the gulf about midnight, then unload into smaller barges or river rafts that’ll travel down one or several bayous for unloading—we’re not sure which. Is the night vision equipment installed?”
“Yep.”
“You understand the way we’re going to run this operation. You’ll stay in the ’copter at all times. You are not to get involved in any action.”
“Yep.”
“You’ll be at the airport by ten hundred hours?”
“Yep.”
“One last thing: this is dangerous business, Remy. Don’t be fooled into thinking you’re safe inside your ’copter, or anywhere else if they discover your identity. Whatever else you do, keep a low profile. Be safety conscious at all times.”
“Yep.”
Another reason not to get involved with Rachel—or any woman—at this time. Not just his safety, but hers, could be in jeopardy.
But then he entered the houseboat again and got a good look at what Rachel was doing. Using a collapsible yardstick to measure his office alcove, she was on her hands and knees with her butt in the air.
If that’s a big butt, then, whoo-ee, baby!
His safety-conscious brain just blew a fuse.
Snakes, and gaters, and mudbugs, oh my
Three days later, Granny awakened Rachel and Beau at dawn for an early, multi-purpose expedition into the swamps. To gather duck eggs. Dig up wild endive. Pick blackberries. And in Beau’s case, to shoot a rabbit or two for a special adaptation of a traditional Cajun dish, which they’d named “Hoppin’ Jampalaya.” Yeech! It was Beau’s favorite, and today was his twenty-first birthday.
Peeping out the window, Rachel gasped over what must be a routine ritual for those living here, but a spectacular sight for a newcomer like her. The dark predawn skies began to pale slowly to a grayish-blue, then suddenly burst forth with bright blue as the new day came on fast, like the flash of a camera’s bulb. All the wading birds—egrets, ibises, herons, and many others—came up out of their roosts in whooshy clouds, searching for places to feed. The morning sounds of the bayou, especially the myriad of birdsongs, filled the air.
Rachel showered and got her eyes open with a mug of café au lait, Granny style, which involved a cup of hot milk, half of which was heavy cream, topped with a good amount of strong chicory coffee. If she wasn’t careful, she was going to have to invest in an exercise machine.
Not!
Something would have to be done, though, because here came Granny with plates of that popular Cajun sausage, boudin, poached eggs, toasted and buttered homemade bread, and reconstituted orange juice. In the background, “Me Blon” played on a local radio station. Rachel recognized the song, in this case sung by the popular group Beau Soleil, because her cousin had been teaching her about the sometimes-rowdy, sometimes-poignant Cajun music which was particular to this region. Granny put one plate in front of Beau and another in front of Rachel, but made sure she patted her on the shoulder as had become her custom, as if Rachel needed reassurance of her grandmother’s continued presence in her life.
“So, what are you doing for your birthday?” Rachel asked Beau when she was halfway through her delicious meal. Granny had sat down at the table with them, with smaller portions of everything.
“You mean after he comes out with us this mornin’, and after he eats his birthday dinner this evenin’?” Granny interjected before Beau had a chance to answer.
“I wanna go to The Swamp Shack t’night. Listen to some good Cajun music.” He gave Rachel a pointed look at that last. “Do a little dancin’. Have my first legal drink, now that I’m twenty-one.”
“Swampy’s? That honky-tonk over in Houma?” Granny exclaimed indignantly. “You ain’t gonna chank-a-chank. No, you ain’t.”
“Now, Granny, I dint say nothin’ ’bout no bar hopping. Jist one place, and it ain’t a bad place, either.”
“You doan go diggin’ for gold in an outhouse.”
“Who’s lookin’ for gold? Not me. And I ain’t lookin’ for no wife, either, if thass what yer hintin’ at.”
“Nothin’ but trouble in those booze clubs.”
“Rachel’s goin’ with me.”
“I am?”
“Yep, sorta a birthday present to me,” he replied with a wink at her. If he only knew how ridiculous he looked. His mullet hairdo in the morning resembled a haystack that had been caught in a windstorm.
“Well, I don’t know,” Rachel said. “I have to go over to Remy LeDeux’s houseboat this afternoon and meet with the contractor about the skylight. Plus, Charmaine and I need to pick out some upholstery fabrics for her spa.”
“We wouldn’t go ’til about nine o’clock. You have plenty of time,” Beau pleaded.
“I don’t like you associatin’ with them LeDeuxs, no, I don’t. Bad company, for sure. Especially that Remy. He’s trouble, girl. I can feel it in my bones.”
“I’m working for them. That’s all it is. Work,” Rachel said, even if it felt like a lie. “Besides, I like Charmaine.”
“Her mother was a stripper,” Granny pointed out.
“So? My mother wasn’t any better.”
Granny made a harrumphing sound, not a concession, but not agreement, either.
“Granny, I haven’t even seen Remy since I originally signed on to do the work three days ago. He’s out of town, I think.”
Just then, his ’copter flew over, real low, as if announcing his return, almost as if he said, up close and personal, “Here I am, ready or not.”
Rachel groaned.
Her grandmother arched her eyebrows in a gloating fashion.
Beau let out a hoot of laughter.
Rachel probably should have surrendered to her grandmother’s wishes regarding the LeDeuxs, as irrational as her prejudices against them seemed to be. But, dammit, all her life she’d tried to be good, to live up to other people’s expectations—potential adoptive parents, David, everyone, really. Time for her to live by her own standards. To thine own self be true, for a change.
By seven A.M., the temperature and humidity already soared. Rachel’s long-sleeved blouse stuck to her back and rivulets of sweat ran down behind her thighs in her hot jeans as she and Beau followed her grandmother down a path. Rachel was too much of a coward to wear shorts in an area where mosquitoes the size of golf balls loved nothing more than performing kamikaze maneuvers on virgin flesh. Granny claimed the Avon S
kin So Soft soap in the bathroom was a good-enough bug repellent for anyone. Maybe so. Rachel recalled hearing years ago that Skin So Soft, originally just bath oil, became better known by word-of-mouth as an insecticide than a beauty product; even hunters and fishermen applied it liberally. Instead of being appalled, Avon jumped on the bandwagon, and began to market that asset, too.
Rachel’s attire was intended as protection from bugs, but she also harbored a healthy fear of snakes popping out of nowhere, taking one look at her bare skin, and announcing loudly in reptile language, “Party!”
Her grandmother carried a big basket over one arm, Rachel carried a blue-and-white enamel bucket, and Beau carried a rifle. The path they walked on was pretty wide and clear, but occasionally a bush or tree branch had to be brushed aside. Steam rose off the lush vegetation as a new day began.
It really was another world here—an everchanging other world. Overhead the clouds swirled and writhed incessantly from the high humidity, a beautiful phenomenon distinctive to the region. Here, the colors, the smells, the tastes, the feel—everything was to the nth degree. Never just red, but bright red. Not blue, but vivid blue, or crystal blue, or dark as midnight blue. A Garden of Eden in many ways.
Oddly, without effort, Granny’s property fell into perfect compliance with Feng Shui principles, mainly because no one had interfered with the natural flora and fauna. Nature provided its own balance of contrasting elements. Even inside her rustic home, earthy browns, beiges and tans provided a harmony that decorators worked hard to achieve.
They reached their destination.
The Mommy and Daddy ducks swam in the middle of the stream, nibbling on watermeal—tiny green dots floating atop the water—when they snuck up on the nest. Granny quickly filched five of the eggs, leaving one “for luck,” and placed them carefully in her endive-lined basket. She’d dug up the bunches of endive with a special pronged tool. Beau kept guard the whole time. Snakes and other animals apparently craved eggs.
“Duck eggs make the bestest vinegar cake,” Granny proclaimed, smacking her lips.
Next, they picked blackberries ’til their tummies were full, their hands stained, and the bucket overflowing. Then they sat down on several big boulders by the stream at Granny’s insistence because she was short of breath. Nearby a possum dug in the moist soil of the bank, searching for grubs, Rachel supposed.
