Tall, Dark, and Cajun

by Sandra Hill

  And then she crashed.

  Her breathing settled down a bit and her eyes unglazed. Only then did she look up to see Remy watching her closely. He hadn’t yet come himself. When he saw that she was finally sated, he thrust into her body one last time, so hard that he moved her up the mattress a good foot. And sweet, sweet, sweet was the look of pure male satisfaction on his face as he reared back his head and shoulders and said through gritted teeth, “Yeeeesssss!”

  It seemed like hours later that Remy rolled off Rachel to his back, tucking her under his arm. He kissed the top of her head gently. “I think I love you.”

  “You’re probably just saying that because I didn’t vomit.”

  He laughed and pinched her butt for teasing at such a serious time. Heck, she was being playful because she was scared to death. Scared of the intensity of her feelings, scared to be entering another relationship so soon after her previous disaster, scared that she might be falling under the influence of a lust bonanza, scared that he just gave her a line . . . scared that everything was happening too darn fast.

  Most of all, she was scared to tell him what her true feelings were. But then, she did.

  “I think I love you, too.”

  She could swear she heard a voice in her head say, Whew!

  I love the way you love me, baby

  Remy had never said those three words to a woman before. “I love you” just wasn’t in his vocabulary.

  So why did I say them to Rachel? Damned if I know!

  Well, duh! Because you meant them, you fool, St. Jude offered, or whoever it was talking inside his head.

  Truth to tell, the words had just slipped out. Not that he regretted saying them, exactly, especially since Rachel had reciprocated. But what if he’d confused lust with love? And now had he bound himself in some way? Had he made a commitment of sorts? Was this the beginning of something? And did it matter?

  No, he decided almost immediately, it didn’t matter. He had been honest in expressing that sentiment.

  But, man oh man, was he shaking in his boots!

  Then he recalled that he wasn’t wearing any boots.

  “What’s so funny?” Rachel asked, raising her head off his heaving chest.

  “Nothing, honey, nothing at all.” He kissed the top of her head.

  Of course, that started her engine all over again. He could tell by the way she was eyeing his body and running a palm over his nipples and watching with interest as they stood up like good little soldiers. Okay, to be truthful, his motor began to hum again, too, which was amazing, really, considering what they’d just done.

  Outside, he thought he heard Useless thump his tail against the houseboat a few times, as if to say, “Way to go, big boy!” Maybe tomorrow he would try to find Useless a girlfriend . . . to share the sexual joy.

  Then, Remy stopped thinking altogether as Rachel began a slow, wonderfully torturous worship of his body, deformed flesh and all. If he hadn’t thought he loved her before, he did now.

  Chapter 10

  After the party’s over

  Rachel tiptoed into her grandmother’s home before dawn. She felt like a teenager sneaking in the house after curfew, not a thirty-three-year-old woman out on her own.

  Luckily, Granny and Beau were still asleep, and Remy had performed some special talents with the guard dog, Chuck—who obviously wasn’t much of a guard dog—preventing him from barking. It probably involved large numbers of gingersnaps, his pet alligator’s favorite treat, second only to cheese doodles, though Remy claimed the dog’s silence was due to his “special talents.” And, whoo-ee, she knew better than anyone just how many “special talents” the wily Cajun had.

  As she crept up the staircase to the loft, her knees wobbled, and a wonderful abrasion between her legs reminded her of the unbelievable four times they’d made love. The last time had occurred in Remy’s minuscule shower where he’d attempted to show her the famous Cajun C-spot, which was reputedly much better than the traditional G-spot. They’d been laughing so hard, and loving so hard, that they broke the shower door and almost broke their necks on the slick tiles. They’d finished on the galley table, which was fortunately bolted to the floor. Afterward, they’d eaten chocolate ice cream from the carton. It was just about the only food in Remy’s refrigerator. He’d explained that it was his leftover birthday ice cream. She’d asked if he wanted her to sing “Happy Birthday” to him, and he’d replied, “Only if you’re naked and wearing Ronald McDonald’s costume.” Whatever that meant!

  And talk! All night long, they had talked in between bouts of making love. She’d wanted to know everything about him: what he’d done in the past, his work, his hobbies, his dreams, everything that would help her know this stranger she had come to love. And vice versa. “Remy, I’ve been hurt terribly by a man I was with for five years, and obviously didn’t know at all. He kept secrets from me— well, one big secret that I know of. You and I haven’t known each other long, but I feel as if we’ve known each other forever. Can I trust you?”

  His answer had been a mind-melting kiss.

  Now, exhausted beyond belief, Rachel sank down to the feather-tick mattress. Within minutes, she drifted off to sleep with a smile on her face. She didn’t want to think about the three ominous words that had hung between her and Remy like a blinking neon sign, never repeated after that one time. She was happier than she’d been in a long, long time. And that had to count for something.

  Hours later, she awakened to the sound of her grandmother calling up to her. “Rachel, you got company. Come on down here, sleepyhead.”

  Rachel jackknifed into a sitting position. Was it Remy? No, he’d told her he had to fly somewhere today. Maybe he’d changed his mind. Oh, God, she better hurry. Granny would be serving him poison oak oatmeal, if she got the chance.

  It took her ten minutes to get herself presentable in a pair of jeans and T-shirt, with athletic shoes. She pulled her hair back into a ponytail. When she entered the kitchen, she got the shock of her life. It definitely wasn’t Remy. It was his great-aunt, Tante Lulu, chatting amiably over coffee and les oreilles de cochran, or “pigs’ ears” with her grandmother. The Cajun confection was nothing more than fried twists of dough, doused with cane sugar and sprinkled with chopped nuts. Well, there was one saving grace in this situation: if Granny was up to making sweet stuff, she must not know Rachel had stayed out with Remy all night, or she wouldn’t be in such a pleasant mood.

  “I met up with Lulu at mass this mornin’. She came to see you,” her grandmother announced.

  “Me?” Rachel squeaked out, reaching for the cup of black coffee her grandmother poured for her.

  “Yep. Gonna take you into the swamps with her. Show you how to pick healing herbs and such. Take you along on her rounds of patients.”

  Into the swamps? With her? Oh, geesh, maybe she wants to kill me, or something. Feed me to the alligators or shove me in quicksand. Well, at least I know why she’s dressed so . . . weird. For a jungle trek. Today, Tante Lulu wore a safari-style shirt and pants with a pith helmet. Her hair was normal today, curly gray. No, Rachel was wrong about that. It was curly gray with purple streaks. Lordy, Lordy!

  “Dr. Livingstone, I presume,” Rachel quipped.

  “Huh?” Tante Lulu replied. Then, “Me, I figured you being into that there fungus-way stuff, you oughta learn how us bayou folks find balance in our lives. The old-fashioned way. We doan need no fungus mumbo jumbo.”

  “I can’t come with you,” Rachel said, thinking quick. “I have an appointment with Charmaine to look over paint samples.”

  “It’s Sunday, girl. A day of rest. The spa, she is closed. Charmaine won’t be comin’ in to meet you, anyways. Nosirree. That girl, she’s hidin’ out from Rusty.”

  “Her ex-husband?” Rachel asked.

  “Yep. She’s been married four times, but he was the first, and I imagine he’s hopin’ to be the fifth.”

  “I thought Rusty was in jail,” Granny said.

&nbs
p; “Got out last week,” Tante Lulu informed her. “And he’s as lustsome as a jackrabbit where Charmaine’s concerned.”

  “Why can’t Charmaine just tell him to get lost?”

  “Huh?” Tante Lulu and Granny said at the same time.

  “He’s a Cajun,” Granny explained, as if that said it all.

  “Hard for any woman to resist a Cajun man when he lays on the charm,” Tante Lulu agreed.

  Tell me about it.

  All of her excuses proved fruitless, and soon she was going outside with Tante Lulu, about to embark on her swamp trek with the traiteur. Granny had one last comment for her, though, thus disproving Rachel’s theory that her grandmother hadn’t been aware of her nocturnal activities. “Doan be thinkin’ that I’m gonna throw a weddin’ fer you and that LeDeux boy. You’re on yer own, iffen you doan wanna take my advice ’bout that brood.”

  “Be careful what you say ’bout my kin, Gizelle,” Tante Lulu cautioned. “We’re proud folk same as you.”

  Rachel gasped. “Who said anything about a wedding?

  There definitely is no wedding in the works. Forget about it. Geesh!”

  “Doan worry,” Tante Lulu said, patting her on the arm. “I’ll take care of the weddin’. Gotta work on the bride quilt first, though, and crochet some more doilies for Remy’s hope chest. Who you gonna have fer yer bridesmaids? I know a seamstress in Houma what can whip up taffeta gowns in no time. No offense intended, dearie, but do you plan to wear white?”

  Granny just snorted with disgust and spit a stream of tobacco juice over the porch railing.

  “There is not going to be a wedding,” Rachel insisted.

  No one was listening.

  “There better not be any hanky-panky, though. Caint be rushin’ a good weddin’ and have it ruined, which is ’zackly what will happen iffen we have a big belly at the church services.”

  “Hah!” Granny called after them as they walked down the path. “There’s already been a mess of hanky-panky, iffen I’m guessin’ right.”

  “Really?” Tante Lulu gave Rachel a brisk tsk-tsk! before changing gears. “Well, I reckon I best get my quiltin’ needles out. Mebbe I kin ask the ladies’ auxiliary from Our Lady of the Bayou Church to help out. Hmmm.”

  “There is not going to be a wedding, and don’t you dare make me a bride quilt.” Rachel heaved a huge sigh of distress. “I thought you didn’t even like me.”

  “Like has nothin’ to do with it. I jist thought you weren’t right for Remy, him being a sensitive county boy and all that. But, when the thunderbolt hits, there ain’t no stoppin’ love.” She gave Rachel a sideways glance of examination. “That red hair of yers is off-putting at first. Not that there’s nothin’ bad about being a carrot top, no. It jist doan seem fitten fer a Cajun girl to have red hair.”

  “I’m only half-Cajun.”

  “See.”

  “And you would have preferred a full-blooded Cajun bride for Remy, right?”

  Tante Lulu shrugged. “Woulda, coulda, shoulda doan make the gumbo boil.”

  Carrying on a conversation with Tante Lulu was like speaking a foreign language. You needed an interpreter.

  They got into Tante Lulu’s blue T-bird, with the top down. Thank God Rachel had the foresight to snap on her seat belt, because the old lady took off like a bat out of hell, gravel shooting up in her wake.

  “Good thing you put your hair in a horse’s tail. Otherwise, we’d have red hair whippin’ all over the place. Thass why I wear this here helmet.”

  Of course, why didn’t I think of that? A pith helmet in a convertible to hold down the hair.

  “Do you have to drive so fast?” Rachel shouted over the roar of the engine and the back wind. It was only a narrow one-lane road.

  “You betcha. We got things to do and places to go, girl.”

  That’s what Rachel was afraid of.

  First, they stopped at Tante Lulu’s cottage to pick up some supplies. It was only ten minutes away from her grandmother’s place, but Rachel wasn’t sure if that was due to the short distance or Ms. Nascar-maniac.

  Like many Cajun homes, Tante Lulu’s had an exterior finish made of bousillage, a fuzzy mud mixed with Spanish moss and crushed clam shells to produce a cement-like finish. In her case, though, the stucco had been covered in a charming fashion with logs accented by whitewashed chinking. The house was situated up on a rise of neatly trimmed grass leading down to a much narrower stream than the one at her grandmother’s. Unlike her grandmother’s home, there were no stilts, but it did have the requisite wide front porch with several wooden rockers and a lifesize plastic statue of St. Jude. In the center of the lawn was a spreading fig tree laden with fruit. Rock-edged flower beds surrounded the house on all sides, providing a myriad of colors and fragrances. A rooster crowed from the small chicken coop in the rear. Neat rows of vegetables were arrayed in a patch surrounded by wire mesh fencing to keep out hungry animals.

  They entered and Tante Lulu checked the answering machine of the cell phone attached to her belt. After listening to the half dozen messages, all from patients describing symptoms or wanting to set appointments, the traiteur began to answer her calls. In between, she told Rachel to rest a spell while she finished with the telephone business and then gathered her materials.

  Rachel chose to nose around instead. The rooms were small and the ceilings low—in deference to the diminutive lady, she supposed. The living room had comfortable stuffed furniture, with doilies on all the arms and backs.

  There were framed photographs of family members everywhere. One of an attractive young woman with three young boys caught her eye. It must be Lulu’s niece and the mother of the three LeDeux boys. Rachel smiled as she picked out Remy, about four years old at the time, his two front baby teeth missing. Nowhere visible was Valcour LeDeux, the miscreant father she’d heard so much about. A lovely wedding picture of Luc and Sylvie held promi- nence. Charmaine looked pretty in a ball gown, big hair and tiera in a photo taken about ten years ago when she was Miss Louisiana. There were also school photos of Luc and Remy and René. And one of Remy looking stunningly gorgeous in an Air Force uniform, before his accident.

  Behind the living room was the kitchen with its cypress cabinets and white porcelain sink. Red-and-white-checked curtains matched the cloth on the 1940s-style enamel table. Two bedrooms opened off the hall which ran front to back. One contained an old four-poster bed covered with a hand-woven Cajun spread and unbleached curtains. A small alcove with a shrine to the Blessed Virgin Mary and St. Jude was in the hallway, and throughout the home hung crucifixes and holy pictures, indicative of the Catholic faith.

  Down the hall was a bedroom with a set of bunkbeds and a cot, undoubtedly the landing pad for the three boys when they came to visit. On the walls were New Orleans Saints and Tulane University pennants, along with some rock posters, a blow-up of Richard Petty at a Nascar race, and a pin-up of Heather Locklear. On a bookcase rested three framed photographs side by side of the boys on their respective First Communion days, wearing cute three-piece suits, rosaries around their necks, and their hands folded in prayer. Each had a twinkle in his eye, even then. Little rascal saints!

  Rachel found the home meticulously clean and cozy. Why she should be surprised by that, she did not know. Probably because the old lady was so eccentric in her physical appearance and outrageous in her actions. She’d halfway expected to find newspapers and magazines piled everywhere and dirty dishes in the sink with some voodoo paraphernalia hanging from the ceiling.

  Rachel discovered Tante Lulu in a large pantry behind the kitchen where she was filling zipper plastic bags with herbs from the labeled bottles which filled the shelves from floor to ceiling. Dozens of containers held the usual herbs, whose pungent odors filled the room, but bizarre things, too, like alligator grease, pigeon hearts, dried rabbit blood, snake rattles, chicken dung, lamb placentas and pig anuses.

  “Alligator grease!” Rachel exclaimed. She couldn’t imagine how one would actually o
btain such a thing.

  “Oh, yeah,” Tante Lulu said, without looking up. “Bestest thing for the asthma and shortness of breath. Mix it with honey and add a bit of orange juice. Very tasty.”

  I—don’t—think—so.

  A well-worn butcher block table stood in the middle of the pantry. On it were various knives, wooden bowls and pestles, and an ancient book with handwritten notes on healing remedies, its leaves brown with age. Several decanters of oil and holy water sat off to the side.

  “You have a very nice home.”

  “Thank you. It belonged to my parents. Me and my older sister Clarice grew up here. Clarice was Luc and Remy and René’s grandmommy.”

  “Did you ever marry?”

  She shook her head. “My parents and Clarice drowned in a boat crash off Grand Isle when I was only sixteen, bless their souls. I had to raise Adèle, who was only ten. Then, after she married, I had to care for her youngens every time they run away from their Daddy’s belt. Lordy, Lordy, he was a mean ol’ bastard. Still is.”

  Rachel began to get a clear—and not pleasant—picture of what Remy’s childhood must have been like.

  “Then Adèle died, too, and my boys needed me.” She shrugged as if to say she had had no choice.

  Well, Rachel knew a lot of older, career-minded women who would have put their own interests first. “They were lucky to have you.”

  Instead of pretending false modesty, Tante Lulu said, “Mais, oui!” But of course.

  Tante Lulu scribbled notes on a little pad, explaining that she was low on some herbs. Before she made some stops to treat patients, they would go into the bayou and gather the plants. “Do you mind?” the old lady asked.

  “I’m enjoying myself.” And that was the truth.

  Out of habit, Rachel grabbed for her leather shoulder bag and followed Tante Lulu out the door, down the steps, then off to the stream where a small boat with an outboard motor sat. Heat shimmied over the water, and the clouds swirled overhead. Tante Lulu motioned for Rachel to get in first.