Tall, Dark, and Cajun

by Sandra Hill

  Moments later, they sank to the floor and adjusted their clothing. She sat next to him with her head on his shoulders. The only sounds came from the gurgling fountain and their heavy breathing. Off in the distance, they could hear an auctioneer raffling off the bachelors and bachelorettes.

  “I have been so miserable without you the last two weeks,” she said. “What have you been doing?”

  “Playing Ping-Pong basketball with that stupid flower vase you put in my houseboat.”

  “What?” she practically shrieked, turning to look at him. “Remy, that Roseville vase is an antique, worth close to ten thousand dollars. I stole—uh, got it from David.”

  That surprised him. Not that it was an antique, but that she’d gotten it from her ex-fiancé, then put it in his home. There was probably some kind of macabre female revenge logic involved. “Hey, maybe I’ll play golfball basketball with it when I go home.”

  “No, you won’t,” she asserted. “We’re going to give it to David for a wedding gift.”

  “Is David getting married?”

  “No, we are.”

  And they did.

  A Cajun kind of love

  The wedding of Rachel Fortier and Remy LeDeux was a Cajun kind of thang.

  Father Philippe performed the traditional ceremony at Our Lady of the Bayou Church, complete with tuxes and formal gowns; nothing else would satisfy Tante Lulu. Luc served as best man, with René, Beau and Tee-John backing him up as ushers. More than a few ladies sighed as these Cajun rogues walked down the aisle. Charmaine preened happily as maid of honor with Jill, Laura and Daphne trailing behind her as bridesmaids. Blanche, Camille and Jeanette led the bridal parade into church as flower girls, except that shy little Jeanette bailed out at the last minute and had to be carried down the aisle by her daddy.

  The church service might have been refined and conservative. The reception was just the opposite. The after-church party was a casual, low-down Cajun affair held under tents on Remy’s Bayou Black property. Folding tables groaned with customary Cajun foods served with lots of beer, Oyster Shooters and lemonade. Even Useless wore a red ribbon around his scaly neck in honor of the event; it only took Beau Fortier five hours of gator wrestling to accomplish that feat. Beau was to start his professional wrestling tour next week as The Swamp Monster, thanks to René’s influence, and he claimed gator wrestling would be added to his act. To which most people responded, “Talk about!”

  Grandma Fortier stole the day, having submitted herself to a make-over at Charmaine’s spa. She wore a gray silk pantsuit, pearl earrings, and low-heeled, black, patent-leather dress pumps. Her long straggly hair had been cut short and permed in a stylish bob. The mustache had been removed, and best of all, no tobacco plug—at least none that anyone could see. A reluctant participant in the festivities, Gizelle was heard warning the groom, “Hurt my granddaughter and I put a gris on yer man part. Is that understood? I gots the doll made up already .. . with a teeny-tiny weinie.”

  Remy’s response was to throw his head back and laugh, then dance his grandma-in-law around the lawn to the tune of “Louisiana Saturday Night” till she finally laughed, too. A LeDeux getting a smile out of a Fortier was considered by all to be a remarkable thing.

  Tante Lulu behaved herself at the church, but she came to the reception dressed as what some described as a Bourbon Street hooker outfit, probably borrowed from Charmaine. “Now that Remy is settled, I gots to find myself a man,” she explained to a blushing Luc and René. She had her eye on James Boudreaux, who was at least eighty-five, but still had that Cajun twinkle in his eye. She was probably just teasing them. They hoped.

  And Tante Lulu morphed into her usual matchmaker mode when she saw René dance five times in a row with Rachel’s friend Laura from Washington. Laura appeared rather stunned by the attention from the handsome rascal with obvious wicked intentions, especially when he slow-danced her off to the side and stole a kiss. “Mebbe I need to get someone a hope chest,” Tante Lulu murmured to no one in particular.

  Valcour and Jolie LeDeux had been invited but did not show up. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief over that.

  The bride and groom remained in their wedding clothes, except that Remy shrugged off his coat and tie and cummerbund. “Is there anything sexier than a well-built man in suspenders?” his bride asked, pretending to swoon. Rachel removed her veil and detachable train and shoulder cover so that she was left in a cream-colored, knee-high, strapless dress. Her groom’s response to this transformation was a slow, sexy grin.

  As the evening wore on and the party wound down,

  Remy and Rachel walked down to the bayou to be alone for a bit.

  “I will love you forever, Rachel.”

  And Rachel responded in the only way a Cajun girl could. “Prove it.”

  Somewhere in the celestial sphere

  “We did it!” St. Jude told God, giving him a high-five.

  “Remy was a hard one, but he finally came around. The good ones always do,” God said. “Who’s next?”

  “Well, that Charmaine has been due for a good shake-up for some time now. And René . . . that boy needs an anchor in his life. Whoever you want.”

  God sighed. “A God’s work is never done.”

  Epilogue

  Five years and six children later

  Remy and Rachel were lying on a blanket on the lawn outside their Bayou Black home, a rambling two-story, eight-bedroom log house. The houseboat was still docked down the hill, but it was used only for guests now. His grandmother-in-law Gizelle had sold him not ten but twenty acres so he could build the home and the landing pad.

  They watched their six children play and fish and feed gingersnaps to Useless. Yes, six children. They’d gone a bit overboard in the adoption business, but how could they resist all the needy youngsters they’d discovered, lost in the foster care system?

  There was eleven-year-old Rashid, a black orphan from Baton Rouge with a learning disability but musical talent that placed him in the prodigy category; ten-year-old Maggie, a Down Syndrome child from Chicago, who was always smiling; Andrew, a nine-year-old Romanian refugee, who could throw a football like a budding quarterback, even though he’d come to them malnourished and half the normal size; the twins, Evan and Stephan, who they referred to as Even-Steven, rogues to the bone already, at age thirteen; and Suzanne, their two-year-old Cajun darling. All of them had been deemed “difficult to place” children, like Rachel had been.

  Their life was chaos, but Remy had never been happier in his whole life. This was his destiny—Rachel and these children.

  “Are you feeling all right, chère?” he asked. With his head propped on his braced elbow as he lay on his side facing her, Remy put a hand on her huge mound of a stomach.

  She nodded happily.

  Their son would be born in one more month, thanks to the miracle of modern medicine. But sometimes, in the middle of the night, he wondered if St. Jude might have played a part.

  For sure!

  Dear Reader:

  I hope you liked Remy’s story in Tall, Dark, and Cajun. Is there anything sexier than a tortured hero with a sense of humor? I don’t think so.

  As you probably suspect, I love Southern Louisiana and its quaint Cajun culture. In fact, I consider the Cajun backdrop to my books a character in itself.

  My fascination with all things Louisianan started about ten years ago while accompanying my husband on a business trip. I was off exploring historic sites by myself and knocked on the door of an antebellum house with a plaque outside indicating tours were available at certain times. Well, a genteel lady in period attire answered the door and invited me inside, as if I were an invited guest. She gave me a one-person tour of “her” house, followed by tea in the front parlor.

  After that, I was hooked and have returned to Louisiana several times just for the love of it. I can’t prove it with genealogy records, but I swear I have a genetic memory of that region.

  The Cajun people (or Acadians) a
re a resilient people, like the heroes and heroines of my romance novels. Kicked out of France and Canada, they landed in Southern Louisiana, not in the elegant cities, but the primitive bayous where they learned to survive on the animals and plant life disdained by others. Their strong love of family, good food (think gumbo, jambalaya and crawfish), lively music (Beau Soleil, Doug Kershaw, etc.), unique language (a lilting blend of French, English and several other cultures, with a little Southern drawl thrown in), and general joie de vivre (joy of life)—all these inspire awe and a smile. Their names

  are so colorful, like Valcour and Alcide and Tee-John and Octave, like LeDeux, Doucet, Lanier, or Rivard. I especially appreciate the Cajun sense of humor.

  Next on the agenda is Charmaine’s story, tentatively titled The Cajun Cowboy. I’ve already provided the set-up with her yummy ex-husband Raoul Lanier, who just got released from prison. Laughter guaranteed! René’s story is sure to follow after that.

  Check out my website where I’ve started a genealogy chart for my Cajun series. Sometimes all these families get confusing. I consider the chart a work-in-progress, which will be updated periodically.

  Please let us know what you think of Remy and his book, Tall, Dark, and Cajun. Truly, your opinions matter to writers and publishers, alike.

  Wishing you smiles in your reading,

  Sandra Hill

  PO Box 604

  State College, PA 16804

  website: www.sandrahill.net

  email: shill733@aol.com

  About the Author

  Sandra Hill lives in the middle of chaos, surrounded by a husband, four sons, a live-in girlfriend, two grandchildren, a male German Shepherd the size of a horse, and five cats. Each of them is more outrageous than the other. Sometimes three other dogs come to visit. No wonder she has developed a zany sense of humor. And the clutter is neverending: golf clubs, skis, wrestling gear, baseball bats and gloves, tennis rackets, mountain climbing ropes, fishing rods, bikes, exercise equipment. . . .

  Sandra and her stockbroker husband, Robert, own two cottages on a world-renowned fishing stream (which are supposed to be refuges), two condos in Myrtle Beach (which are too far away to be used), and seven Dominoes Pizza stores (don’t ask!). One son and his significant other had Sandra’s first grandchild at home with an Amish midwife. Another son says he won’t marry his longtime girlfriend unless they can have a Star Wars wedding. Another son at twenty-three fashions himself the Donald Trump of Central Pennsylvania. A fourth son . . . well, you get the picture.

  Robert and Sandra love their sons dearly, but Robert says they are boomerangs: They keep coming back. Sandra says it must be a sign of what good parents they are, that the boys want to be with them.

  No wonder Sandra likes to escape to the library in her home, which is luckily soundproof, where she can dwell in the more sane, laugh-out-loud world of her Cajuns. When asked by others where Sandra got her marvelous sense of humor, her husband and sons just gape. They don’t think she’s funny at all.

  Sandra is a USA Today, New York Times extended and Waldenbooks bestselling author of fifteen novels and four novellas. All of her books are heavy on humor and sizzle.

  Little do Sandra’s husband and sons know what she’s doing in that library.

  More Sandra Hill!

  Please turn this page

  for a preview of

  THE CAJUN COWBOY

  available soon from Warner Books.

  Chapter 1

  Give me a buzz, baby . . .

  “I’m a born-ag ain virgin.”

  Charmaine LeDeux made that pronouncement with a soft feminine belch after downing three of the six oyster shooters sitting on the table before her at The Swamp Tavern. She was halfway to meeting her goal of getting knee-walking buzzed.

  The jukebox played a soft Jimmy Newman rendition of “Louisiana, The Key to My Soul.” The jam-balaya in the kitchen filled the air with pungent spices. Gater, the bald-headed, long-time bartender, washed glasses behind the bar.

  Louise Rivard—better known as Tante Lulu—sat on the opposite side of the booth. She arched a brow at the potent drinks in front of Charmaine compared to her single glass of plain RC Cola and looked pointedly at Charmaine’s stretchy red T-shirt with its hairdresser logo, I Can Blow You Away. Only then did the old lady declare, “And I’m Salome about to lose a few veils.” In fact, Tante Lulu, who had to be close to eighty, was wearing a harem-style outfit because of a belly dance class she planned to attend on the other side of Houma this afternoon. In the basement of Our Lady of the Bayou Church, no less! But first, she’d agreed to be Charmaine’s designated driver.

  “I’m sher . . . I mean, serious.” Charmaine felt a little woozy already. “My life is a disaster. Twenty-nine years old, and I’ve been married and divorced four times. Haven’t had a date in six months or more. And I’ve got a loan shark on my tail.”

  “A fish? Whass a fish have to do with anything?” Tante Lulu sputtered.

  Sometimes Charmaine suspected that Tante Lulu was deliberately dense. But she was precious to Charmaine, and Charmaine teared up just thinking about all the times the old lady’s cottage had been a refuge to her over the years when she used to run away from unbearable home conditions. Being the illegitimate daughter of a stripper and the notorious womanizer Valcour LeDeux had made for a rocky childhood, and Tante Lulu had been the little girl’s only anchor. She wasn’t even Charmaine’s blood-relative; she was blood-aunt only to Charmaine’s half-brothers, Luc, René and Remy.

  So, it was with loving patience that Charmaine explained, “Not just any fish. A shark. Bobby Doucet wants fifty thousand dollars by next Friday or he’s gonna put a Mafia hit on me. I didn’t even know they had a Mafia in Southern Loo-zee-anna. Or maybe they’ll just break my knees. Gawd! Yep, I’d say it’s time for some new beginnings. I’m gonna be a born-again virgin.”

  “What? You doan think the Sopranos kill virgins?” Tante Lulu remarked drolly.

  “The born-again virgin thingee is a personal change. The loan shark thingee would require a different kind of change . . . like fifty thousand dollars, and it’s going up a thousand dollars a day in interest. I gotta get out of Dodge fast.”

  Tante Lulu did a few quick calculations in her head. “Charmaine! Thass ten per cent per day. What were you thinkin’?”

  Charmaine shrugged. “I thought I’d be able to pay it off in a few days. It started out at twenty thousand, by the way.”

  “Tsk-tsk-tsk!”

  “I don’t suppose you could lend me the money?”

  “Me? I ain’t got that kind of money. I thought yer bizness was goin’ good. What happened?”

  “The business is great.” Charmaine owned two beauty spas, one here in Houma and the other in Lafayette. Both of them prospered, even in a slow economy. Apparently, women didn’t consider personal appearance a luxury. Nope, her spas were not the problem. “I made a lot of money in the stock market a few years back. That’s when I bought my second shop. But I got careless this year and bought some technology stocks on margin. I lost more money than I put in. It was a temporary problem, which spiralled out of control when I borrowed money from Bucks ’r Us. Who knew it was a loan shark operation?”

  “Well, it sure as shootin’ doan sound like a bank. Have you gone to the police?”

  “Hell, no! I’d be deader’n a door nail within the hour if I did that.”

  “How ’bout Luc?” Lucien LeDeux was Charmaine’s half brother and a well-known local lawyer.

  She nodded. “He’s working on it. In the meantime, he suggested, maybe facetiously, that I hire a bodyguard.”

  Tante Lulu brightened. “I could be your bodyguard. I got a rifle in the trunk of my T-bird outside. You want I should off Bobby Doucet? Bam-bam! I could do it. I think.”

  Off? Where does she get this stuff? Charmaine groaned. That was all she needed—a one-senior citizen posse. “Uh, no thanks.” With those words, Charmaine tossed back another shot glass filled with a raw oyster
drowning in Tabasco Sauce, better known with good reason as Cajun Lightning, then followed it immediately with a chaser of pure one hundred proof bourbon. “Whoo-ee!” she said, accompanied by a full-body shiver.

  “Back to that other thing,” Tante Lulu said. “Charmaine, honey, you caint jist decide to be a virgin again. It’s like tryin’ to put the egg back to- gether once the shell’s been cracked. Like Humpty Dumpty.”

  Hump me, dump me. That oughta be my slogan. Oughta have it branded on my forehead.

  The more upbeat “Cajun Born” came on the jukebox, and Charmaine jerked upright. Shaking her fifty-pound head slowly from side to side, she licked her lips, which were starting to get numb. “Can so,” she argued irrationally. Or was that rationally? Whatever. “Be a virgin again, I mean. It’s a big trend. Some lady even wrote a book about it. There’s websites all over the Internet where ladies promise to be celibate till their wedding day. Born-again virgins.”

  “Hmpfh!” was Tante Lulu’s only response as she sipped on her straw.

  “Besides, I might even have my hymen surgically replaced.”

  Tante Lulu was a noted traiteur, or healer, all along the bayou, and she was outrageous beyond belief in her antics and attire. For once, Charmaine had managed to shock her. “Is hey-man what I think it is?”

  “It’s hi-man, and yes, it is what you think.”

  “Hey, hi . . . big difference! You are goin’ off the deep end, girlie, iffen yer thinkin’ of havin’ some quack sew you up there.”

  Deep end is right. “I didn’t say I was going to do it for sure. Just considering it. But born-again virgin, that I am gonna do, for sure.”

  “Hmmm. I really do doubt that, sweetie,” Tante

  Lulu said, peering off toward the front of the tavern, which was mostly empty in the middle of the afternoon on a weekday.