Bayou, Whispers from the Past: A Novel

by Lauren Faulkenberry

  George had been right: We can never truly know what’s in another person’s heart or mind. Kate would say we just do our best to interpret the data we collect from their words and our observations. We fill in the gaps as best we can.

  What I didn’t know could fill the Gulf. What I did know was this: I would stay in Vergie’s little house by the lagoon until my life sent me someplace else. I would stay with Jack for as long as he would let me. I would let him love me for as long as he would and love him back as fiercely as we could stand. About this I was certain; it was as real to me as the weight of his hand on my knee.

  He grinned his crooked grin as I slid my fingers in his hair, and then downshifted again before placing his hand back on my thigh. He was good at slowing us down to the right pace, and we were good together. We were good at building, at making things last.

  Acknowledgements

  Many people helped make this book happen, in more ways than they might ever imagine. It’s not easy being a writer, but you all keep me going.

  First I have to thank Katie Rose Guest Pryal, the best beta reader a gal could ask for. I’m sure glad we found each other all those years ago—it’s been delightful becoming a novelist with you.

  I’m tremendously grateful to Adria Cimino and Vicki Lesage, who took a chance on my books and have dedicated so much time and thought into helping me make them the best they can be.

  A special thank you goes to Mike House and the Wildacres staff, who let me crash there in the most perfect writers’ cabin in order to buckle down and finish this book. I couldn’t have made my deadline without my time with you all.

  To my family and friends: I’m thankful to have each and every one of you in my life. Thank you for always believing in me and encouraging me to keep doing what I love most. Your support means the world to me. To Mom and Dad: You two keep me strong and solid, and I’m lucky to have won you in the parent lottery. To Andrew: Thank you for reminding me to stop and savor the moments that matter most. I’m sure glad you let your gelato melt that day.

  And thank you, dear reader, for traveling to the bayou with me. Hope to see you next time.

  About the Author

  Lauren Faulkenberry divides her time between writing, teaching, and crafting artist books. She’s worked as an archaeologist, English teacher and National Park Service ranger. She earned her MFA in creative writing from Georgia College & State University, where she attended on fellowship. She lives in Whittier, North Carolina, where she is at work on her next novel.

  Lauren hopes you enjoyed the book! If you did, she’d appreciate it if you left a review at Amazon. Your words may help convince other readers to embark on this voyage to the bayous of Louisiana with Enza—and Lauren would be most grateful.

  Want more? Get Beneath Our Skin for free! Simply join Lauren’s mailing list: http://bit.ly/lauren-news.

  If you enjoyed this trip to the Bayou, you’ll love the other books in the Bayou Sabine series:

  Bayou My Love, a novel set in the steamy bayous of Louisiana, it’s a story of finding love—and oneself.

  Back to Bayou Sabine, a novella about Enza’s first trip back to the bayou as an adult, and all the trouble that unfolds from just that one visit.

  For news about Lauren and her books, check out LaurenFaulkenberry.com. And you can always drop Lauren a line at Lauren@LaurenFaulkenberry.com.

  Read on for a sneak peek at Bayou My Love…

  Beneath Our Skin

  Winner of the Family Circle Fiction award,

  published in Family Circle March 2008

  Lola’s sister Chloe has always been the perfect one. But Chloe has a secret that shows she’s not so perfect after all. And on Chloe’s wedding day, the two sisters may hold their own quiet revolution…

  Get it for free! Join Lauren’s new release mailing list and she’ll send you a free ecopy of Beneath Our Skin: http://bit.ly/lauren-news

  Bayou My Love

  a novel

  Lauren Faulkenberry

  Chapter 1

  I knew when I strode into my father’s office—before he’d had time to drink his two cups of coffee—that I was asking for trouble. But I was furious.

  He glared at me, the phone cradled to his ear. His upper lip twitched in the way that usually sent people running with fear. As I sat down in the chair across from his desk, I could hear the muffled voice on the other end of the line. Judging by the way he scribbled on his notepad, nearly piercing the paper, the conversation wasn’t going well. If I were a more dutiful daughter, and less hacked off at him, I might have come back later. But he’d been ignoring me all week. I needed a straight answer about my next job and was tired of waiting.

  My father has a knack for taking roughed-up houses and making them look like they belong in the glossy pages of architectural magazines. I’d started working for him when I was in college and discovered I had a knack for it too.

  This fact puts him in a tough spot. On the one hand, he’d like his progeny to take over his company one day. On the other hand, his progeny is me: a hard-headed thirty-one-year-old woman whose general presence aggravates his ulcers. I don’t do things the way he does, and he’s a control freak. This often puts us at an impasse.

  Most of our jobs work out OK. Because I get bored easily, the short-lived challenge of a new house-flip appeals to me. My father sleeps a little easier when his daughter has steady employment and is not too close to his office. He likes to micromanage me, though, and that’s where things get hairy.

  Still on the phone, he leaned back in his prized Mission-style chair and shook his hand at me to say shoo. I crossed my arms over my chest and raised my brows. He pointed to the door more emphatically. I propped my feet on his desk.

  His eyes narrowed as they rested on my beat-up cowboy boots. They were my favorite pair, vintage brown and white with tulip and bluebird inlays. He grimaced whenever I wore them and called them unprofessional. In the beginning, he’d expected me to dress more like a real estate agent, in a nice skirt suit with heels. But skirt suits were completely against my nature. I was a tomboy through and through, perfectly happy in my jeans and plaid shirts. I usually took five minutes to pull my hair back in a ponytail and could sometimes be bothered to put on a little mascara, but that was the extent of my preening. My curvy figure and wildly curly hair had made for an unkind sprint through adolescence. My father was of no help in feminine matters, and my mother was long gone, so I’d fumbled my way through my formative years and came out the other side with zero appreciation for makeup or fashion. Heels put me just over six feet tall, and even though I had my mother’s soft face, I intimidated most men.

  It seemed more beneficial to focus on beautifying houses.

  “I’ll get somebody else over there immediately,” my father said, slamming the phone down. He turned to me. “Honestly, it just can’t get any crazier around here. I hope you’re not coming in to tell me you’re quitting too.”

  “I’ve been thinking about Grandma Vergie’s house,” I said.

  “Enza, I don’t have room for that on my plate right now. We’ll get to it in a few months.”

  “I know you don’t. That’s why I have the perfect solution.”

  He stared at me over his glasses.

  “What if I went down there myself and handled it?”

  He chuckled like I’d told him a joke that wasn’t all that funny.

  When Vergie died a couple of months ago, she’d unexpectedly left her house to me. Dad suggested flipping it, despite my suggestion to keep it as a rental or a vacation home. It was on a stream in southeast Louisiana, just a little north of New Orleans. Bayou Sabine was a beautiful area, but my father scoffed at the idea of another property to maintain. He wanted to turn it around as fast as possible. There was no room in his heart for nostalgia.

  “I’m serious,” I said. “I want to handle this one.”

  “Your first flip should be local.”

  “I’ve been doing this for years. Give me a chance.”r />
  The phone rang again, and he answered before I could finish. “Hang on a sec,” he said into the phone. To me he said, “You can take the next one.”

  I was so tired of hearing that line. I’d been patient, doing all the dirty work he handed me for five years now. House after house, he’d had me doing clean-up and demo, filling dumpsters with all the garbage left from houses that had been auctioned. We were based out of Raleigh, a city where a lot of houses went to auction. Most days, I felt like I needed a haz-mat suit, because people who left pissed off or in a hurry, well, they weren’t concerned with what they left behind. Piles of dirty clothes, rotting garbage, refrigerators that had reached DEFCON 1—nothing surprised me any more. Some days I thought he was making me do the grunt work just to scare me off. He knew I had a weak stomach for filth. What he didn’t know was that there was no way I’d give him the satisfaction of seeing me fail.

  My father delighted in watching failure.

  Occasionally he’d toss me a compliment and say I had a good eye for architecture, or I had more patience than he did—but he still couldn’t let me loose. Sure, he loved me, but sometimes it felt like he was trying to make me prove I was in this business to stay. He considered training me an investment, and his investments needed to bring returns. Turning my grandmother’s house around would go a long way toward making him see me as more of a professional and less of a wayward daughter.

  When I stood, he didn’t shift his gaze to me. I reached over and held my finger down on the phone, breaking the connection on the line.

  “Enza!” he yelled. “That was a contractor!”

  “I don’t want to wait for the next crummy house in the wrong part of town. This one’s important.”

  “That sort of sentimentality is going to cost you a fortune,” he said. “And by extension, cost me a fortune.”

  “This isn’t about sentimentality.”

  He sighed, tapping his pen on the desk. “It’s nothing but a swamp down there,” he said. “The house won’t be like you remember.” He had a strange look on his face, one I couldn’t quite decipher. Usually I could read my father well, because he’s a straightforward guy and doesn’t have time for things like subtext. This look wasn’t anger or fear, exactly, but he was definitely hiding something.

  I shook it off, focused on winning him over. “I still want to go,” I said.

  It had been years since I’d been down to that little corner of Louisiana. When I was a kid, I spent summers with Vergie. But when I was sixteen, shortly after Mom left (no one ever told me why, and eventually I gave up asking), my father told me there would be no more summers with Vergie. She doesn’t want you to visit any more, he said flatly. Being a teenager, thinking the world hated me, I took that to mean Vergie hated me too.

  It never occurred to me until years later that my father might have lied.

  Sure, I could have sought Vergie out. But part of me believed my father and thought she really didn’t want to see me. After all, she was my mom’s mother. They had the same blood. Could they not have the same tendency to abandon me for no reason? I was scared that if I did go to see her, she’d turn me away and confirm everything my father said.

  I couldn’t take that kind of hurt again.

  Years passed, and I shoved those memories to the back of my brain. I hardly thought of Vergie.

  But then she died. Alone, for all I knew. And then I hated myself for not visiting her. Dad wouldn’t even go to the funeral with me. I stood in the back of the church because I didn’t want everyone talking to me like I knew her so well, her only grandchild. The little chapel was packed with people—easily a hundred—all fanning themselves in the heat. The whole time I felt like an impostor, and I had a headache for days from the tears. I didn’t go to her house because I knew all those people would be there, swapping stories over dinner. I couldn’t bear hearing all the things about her I’d missed out on.

  We didn’t find out until weeks later that she’d left the house to me. I thought the lawyers were mistaken, but it was true. And that made me feel worse than anything.

  Dad was probably right to want to sell it—when would I ever be down there? The truth was, I didn’t care about flipping it to turn a profit. I felt like I owed her: Repairing her house would be a kind of homage. The potential profit was just a way to get my father on board and let me use his resources.

  Besides, it would do me good to get out of town for a while and go back to a place that had good memories tied to it.

  My father’s eyes narrowed. “You aren’t going to go down there and get all attached are you? We don’t have time for nostalgia.”

  “I want to turn this house around just as fast as you do.”

  “Then you won’t have a hard time parting with it,” he said, pushing his glasses up on his nose. With his gelled hair and oxford shirt, he looked like he belonged more on a used car lot than in a remodeling business. “I know you like to hang onto things that need fixing,” he said, his eyebrow arched.

  True, I took in strays. I dated men who were broken, hoping to mend their fatal flaws. Everyone has one, of course, but while my father chose to write people off because of their flaws, I urged my partners to overcome them. I took a lot of risks and failed more than I succeeded (with men, not renovations), but there’s a science there, right? A law of averages. You fail enough, you succeed in the long run. Dad liked to hold this habit over my head. He wanted me to settle down with a reliable guy who could balance his checkbook and pay a mortgage on time. But every time I sought out reliable, it backfired. My last boyfriend had been a banker, but then he quit to be a writer. I’d let him stay with me, rent-free, while he tried to build up a freelance business, burning through his savings. I thought I was being supportive, but my father called him a moocher. When we finally broke up, my father said, See what a waste of time and money that was?

  My father thought my propensity to fix people was a weakness. But he thought my inclination to fix houses was lucrative.

  Houses were easy because you figure out what’s broken, add the cost of materials plus the cost of labor, then factor in a little patience over time. Unlike men, renovations were something I could calculate.

  “You said yourself you’ve got too much going on up here,” I said. “Besides, we’ll have squatters if we wait too long.”

  He stared for a long moment, then leaned back in his chair. Those were the magic words. My father despised freeloaders. “Fine. I’ll give you six weeks. That should be plenty of time for that house.”

  “Six weeks,” I said, wondering if he would actually trust me to finish on my own. A perfectionist to the core, he loved to show up halfway through a project and take over completely, arguing that his way was more cost-effective, more efficient. I hated that about him. Sometimes it was easier on everybody if he just came into the project in the beginning. It would save me a car load of aspirin and whiskey. But I was hoping this time he would leave me alone.

  “This will give you the chance to see if you love this job as much as you think you do,” he said, chewing on the tip of his pen.

  I wanted it to spill blue ink down his lip.

  “And this way you get to be the boss.” He winked, then circled a day on his calendar. “Now, let’s get your flight booked.”

  “Fair enough,” I agreed. “But no planes—I’ll drive.”

  He frowned and gave me a look of zero faith. “Right out the gate, wasting time.”

  “Saving money,” I said. “No rental car.”

  “Try to stay focused down there, will you? Don’t get distracted by anything else that needs fixing.”

  “Will do.”

  He reached for the phone and said, “Would you excuse me so I can get back to work here?” He was already dialing before I got to the door.

  I stopped. “Why do you think she left the house to me?”

  He sighed and laid his glasses on the desk. “Who could ever explain Vergie? She was nutty as a fruitcake.” There was that unre
adable look again. What was he hiding?

  “I’ll call when I get there, Dad.”

  “Bonne chance,” he said, arching that eyebrow again. “You’re gonna need all the luck you can get.”

  The door slammed behind me. I didn’t need luck, and I was going to prove it.

  ~~~~

  Cranking the radio up was the perfect antidote for a conversation with my father. I couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket, but I figured that’s why they made car radios—so people like me can blow off steam while driving through four states that look exactly alike and try to forget our fathers’ lack of faith in us.

  I’d spent the night somewhere in east Mississippi, in a motel that served moon pies and instant coffee as continental breakfast. It was a blessing I was exhausted when I checked in—I didn’t notice much about the place and was able to sleep the peaceful slumber of a person ignorant of potential health hazards. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t stay in a place like the Teddy Bear Motel, but around midnight, I’d finally gotten too tired to keep driving. It was the only place around. So I’d stripped the comforter off the bed, skipped the shower and brushed my teeth quickly, not staring too hard at the sink or counter. Too much scrutiny of that place and I’d itch all the way to Bayou Sabine.

  A little after noon, it was already scorching. I cursed myself for not getting the Jeep’s air conditioning fixed back in the spring. With the windows down, I tried to convince myself the heat wasn’t so bad, but my clothes were sticking to me. The land around me had shifted from rolling hills to marshland, and at last I felt like I was out of my father’s orbit. I was thinking less of him and more about those summers I’d spent at the big blue house on the bayou, Vergie teaching me to play poker while we sat on the porch. Starting in grade school, I’d visit her for nearly three months every June when school let out. It was my favorite time of the year. I could run around barefoot and go swimming in the creek at night, and I didn’t have to be ladylike—ever. With Vergie, life seemed more magical. Anything was possible when I was with her.