She turned and waved to him to join them. He looked at her papa. “Permission to come on board, Captain.” He smiled, proud of himself for using the maritime formality he’d obviously researched so he’d behave appropriately. It was both sweet and annoying.
Her papa mumbled under his breath, clearly finding it just annoying. “Papa, I’d like to introduce you to my friend, Dr. Edward Stein. Edward, this is my father, Dudley Comeaux.”
“Mr. Comeaux, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Camille has told me so much about you.”
“She ain’t told me nothing about you,” he mumbled, taking Edward’s hand. “Call me T-Dud.”
Edward nodded. “Permission to come aboard, Captain T-Dud.”
“Mais, get your ass on da boat, Stein, and stop all dat two-stepping youz doing.”
“Mosquitoes,” Edward said, as if that explained his swaying and swatting dance. Without another word, he leaped like a hurdler onto the boat. Camille sucked in a breath and rushed toward him.
Dear Lord, what does he think he’s doing?
Before she could grab him by the arm, the boat dipped and jerked forward under his weight and momentum, then halted abruptly because it was tied to the piling. It slid back. Edward’s body couldn’t keep up and he flipped back.
She didn’t know how he did it, but Edward ended up facedown, his arms spread-eagle and gripping the sides of the boat. One foot had hooked onto a life vest tucked into the sidewall, preventing him from going over. Camille stood in wide-eyed-shock a full three seconds as she looked at him to make sure all of his bones were in the right place—which they were. She started to move to help him, but Edward held up a hand and waved her away.
Her papa rolled his eyes. “Stein, youz act like a drunk duck stepping on a banana peel.”
He forced a smile as he slowly rolled onto his back and made his way to sit on the big ice chest at the back of the boat. Camille quickly turned her back to Edward because her papa’s comment had made her smile and she didn’t want to make him feel any worse than he already did. God, she’d forgotten how much she enjoyed her papa’s sense of humor. That’s because she knew the good and caring man who teased and joked with family and friends. How long would it take Edward to recognize that too? By the way he was frowning, she suspected it might take a while.
When Camille and her papa had the two suitcases and pralines on board and the boat untied, he looked at Edward. “Now, youz hold on tight. We don’t want youz to fall overboard and get eaten by da gators before da family gets to meet you.”
Papa started the engine and they began their twenty-minute ride from Cane to Fa La La.
Camille was coming home.
***
Hunt sat on a slanted old rocking chair on the slanted old front porch of a slanted old cypress cabin on a quiet eleven-acre island that he owned in the middle of the Louisiana bayous and sighed. He was a happy man.
These uncivilized, watery wilds suited him – from the guttural sound of the gators, the hoot of owls, the flop of leaping fish, to the various sounds of all the other wild creatures who inhabited the fragile south Louisiana wetlands, cypress forest, and intruding saltwater marsh. What didn’t suit him were his noisy neighbors across the expansive bayou off the eastern side of his paradise island. They were why he was building his new home on the western side of the island.
The door squeaked behind him as it was pushed open on rusty hinges that needed to be replaced. “That was a productive phone call with the window manufacturer,” his longtime friend and home contractor, Luke Marcelle, told him. He handed Hunt a cold longneck beer. “I got them to drop their price by thirty-two percent for those hurricane impact, energy-rated, and noise-reduction windows you want for your dream home.”
“Saving money is good. You’re good. That’s why I’ve put the construction of my home in your capable hands.” He took a draw of his beer. It fizzed on his tongue, feeling cold and tangy. “But you do know if it’s a choice between saving thirty-two percent and getting my home built by our tight deadline. . .I choose getting my house built on time.”
“You can count on me making the deadline and you handing me my hefty bonus.”
Dream home. That’s exactly what his island and the house he’d designed to put on it was. He’d wanted a quiet place to retreat to when he wasn’t off photographing the worst and best of Mother Nature and man. The solitude he needed to recover from his emotionally and physically draining work had to come with the convenience of power, water, and cell-phone service though. He wanted isolation, not discomfort. So that was what he’d sought in his Internet searches of secluded property for sale. Had Hunt known when he found this island that it was so close to the Cajun community of Fa La La, he probably wouldn’t have bought it. But he had, with the real estate photos and description closing the deal.
Hunt was not such a curmudgeon that he didn’t appreciate the uniqueness of the neighboring island-town built over water and marsh grass. With its cypress buildings on stilts and maze of walkways connecting them, it was all that remained of what once was a Native American settlement. Why did it have to be two hundred feet from his island?
Having the Fa La La small mercantile nearby was convenient, he’d admit, when he needed bread or other supplies in a hurry. The next nearest store was a twenty-minute boat ride and then another ten-minute car ride away.
“There seems to be a different energy today,” Hunt said, motioning to Fa La La. “People are moving about more, smiling more.”
“Yeah? I hadn’t noticed.” Luke took a drink of his beer and checked e-mail on his phone.
“Of course you didn’t. There are no backhoes or blueprints involved.”
Luke laughed. “Other than a long-legged, friendly woman, what else is there to concern yourself with in this world?” He lifted his beer to toast Hunt, who returned the gesture, although aside from a friendly woman, Hunt pretty much disagreed with his friend. “Maybe it’s just because they’re preparing for Thanksgiving tomorrow.”
Hunt looked at Luke. “Thanksgiving? Tomorrow?”
“Man, you need to get out from behind your camera lens and walk into a Wal-Mart. There’s no mistaking the holiday there.”
“Maybe if you had a turkey defrosting in the sink, I would’ve known.” Luke snorted at Hunt’s comment. “There’s no mistaking Christmas is coming around here.” Hunt’s words felt bitter on his tongue. “I just hadn’t realized it was tomorrow.”
And since tomorrow was Thanksgiving, that meant the Fa La La Cajun Christmas on the Bayou Celebration was opening tomorrow. He’d gotten a hard dose of reality of what that would sound and look like around his remote island. The past few nights, the people of Fa La La had tested the cheery Cajun holiday music, multicolored twinkling lights, large animated reindeer, alligators, and red-stocking-hat-wearing raccoon figures. There were more Christmas lights strung along the hundreds of feet of walkways, over every tin roof in the village, along every inch of wooden dock, and on practically every floating vessel, than Santa’s elves put up at the North Pole. And he didn’t like it. Not by his peaceful island.
Hunt felt like he was caught in a Dr. Seuss Christmas book nightmare. He had a strong urge to play the Grinch and sneak into the Fa La La village and steal Christmas.
The sound of an approaching motorboat made him frown. Get used to it, buddy, he warned himself. Starting tomorrow at dusk, there were going to be a lot of boats floating by. At least this one just held three people. He lifted his camera, enjoying the extra weight from the telephoto lens that he’d put on his favorite camera. This time it was trained on two of the three people climbing out onto the dock. A man and a woman. He recognized the big man still on the boat, even without his camera. T-Dud Comeaux. He and a half dozen of the Fa La La leaders had come to his island a month ago, and twice a week ever since, trying to talk him into opening his island to the Christmas pageantry. He’d explained to them that this island was now a construction site and soon to be his private home. It was no longer th
e Cypress Island they’d once used as part of their Christmas festivities.
The man with the casual black jacket and Buddy Holly glasses tripped on the last step from the lower dock to the upper platform. The tiny woman behind him caught him under his arms. Her midnight-colored hair swung away from her tiny waist as she leaned back, waiting for him to get his balance. Maybe he needed to get new glasses.
Hunt zoomed in on the woman with the dark, silky hair. He started focusing on her face as she turned to speak to T-Dud who’d just come up behind her, two steps lower, making them practically the same height. Blue eyes, he noticed first. The clarity of his sophisticated camera lens allowed him to see her eyes were the brilliant, almost iridescent color of the blue morpho butterfly that he’d photographed once while on assignment in the Amazon. Her eyes crinkled as she said spoke to T-Dud. Hunt widened the shot, just slightly, to see the rest of her face, almost afraid that he’d be disappointed.
He wasn’t.
Her mouth, unadorned with lipstick, was full, pink, and smiling over straight white teeth. Her cheekbones were high and her chin small but well formed. She looked like a fairy-tale princess.
She turned and went up the last step and was embraced by T-Dud’s wife, who had the same near-black hair color, only cropped much shorter. He’d met June in the mercantile, where she worked. She had the same fair complexion and petite frame too. Aunt? Mother? By the length and intensity of the hug, he guessed mother. As the younger woman embraced the other people there, the man who’d had to be rescued by this fairy princess stood at the back of the crowd, scratching his face.
Hunt watched the welcoming party for a few minutes more, until one of the older men, one he’d seen in the mercantile every time he went there, pointed toward his island. The fairy princess’s smile faded as she turned to look in his direction. She shaded her eyes with her hand. Still holding his camera with one hand, he waved to her with the other. It wasn’t meant to be friendly or adversarial. It just was an acknowledgment that he knew she was looking at him. Then, to his surprise, she ran down the steps, boarded the boat she’d arrived on, and headed to his island.
His afternoon was about to get interesting.
HUNT FOR CHRISTMAS
CHAPTER TWO
Camille realized she’d left Edward at Fa La La when she was about halfway across Bayou Soliele. Too late to go back. She took her phone from her back jeans pocket and texted him. I’m sorry for rudely running off without making sure you were settled and comfortable with my family. I’ll be back soon.
His response was- okay. She had no idea if that was an angry or an understanding okay.
She’d explain to him how hearing about what was happening to her family made her feel the same as she did when a critical patient was rushed into the ER. She had to take care of the emergency and fix it right away. Her focus was on the injured, nothing else.
What was most important right now was getting the Fa La La Cajun Christmas on the Bayou Celebration back on Cypress Island. She had only three minutes to devise a strategy to make that happen. There was no other place to move it to with enough land in close proximity to Fa La La to have the activities they’d held on that island for so long.
Maybe at one time there was, but not anymore.
Coastal erosion was destroying the swamp and land in coastal Louisiana. The solid marsh that had once surrounded Fa La La was gone now. Cypress Island remained, and thrived, because of its unique location in relation to tidal currents and sediment deposits – and because it hadn’t been affected by cut-through canals created by the oil industry. It had been a perfect place two generations ago and it was a perfect place now for the Christmas activities that wouldn’t fit on the stilted island-village.
Practicing emergency medicine had honed Camille's skills when it came to thinking and responding quickly. The problem was that she had no information with which to formulate a plan for this situation. She had no idea who the new owner was or what motivated him. All she knew was what her grand-papa had said about him, that he was as stubborn as a barnacle on an old oyster boat.
A barnacle that is going to ruin Christmas for all of us.
By the time Camille docked the boat alongside the floating wharf that looked like it had been constructed within the last month, she’d decided that all she could do was be direct with him, like she would be with an obstinate patient.
She looked toward the porch where two men sat. Which was owner and which was companion? They looked to be about the same age, early thirties, and both men had dark hair and wore long sleeve T-shirts. The one with the camera had hair a little darker, longer, and wavier than the other. His T-shirt was tan with no imprint on it and the other’s was light blue with something she couldn’t decipher across the front. Both men, as far as she was concerned, were not very friendly.
“You could get off your lazy butts and greet your visitor properly. Invited or uninvited, it’s what you’re supposed to do,” she mumbled as she secured the boat to one of the new pilings. “If you want to live around here, try acting like the people who live around here.”
Walking toward the weather-worn cabin, she noticed that the paint on the half-dozen rows of cypress knees edging the island on both sides of the wharf had faded and was in need of refreshing. The eight families of Fa La La took a lot of pride in repainting the cypress knees each year with the Christmas characters that visitors looked forward to seeing. That was just one of the things she needed to explain to him.
“Good afternoon,” she said when she reached the uneven steps to the cabin. The man holding the camera just stared at her, while the other man smiled and stood. He extended his hand.
“Hi. I’m Luke Marcelle and this antisocial man is Hunter James.”
Camille shook his hand and didn’t bother extending her hand to Hunter James. His piercing dark brown eyes told her that he wouldn’t shake it. “I’m Camille Comeaux.” He blinked, shifted in the rocker. Clearly there was recognition. Had she met him before? She didn’t think so. She would’ve remembered his square jaw, smooth olive complexion, and piercing brown eyes.
“The prodigal doctor has returned,” Hunter said, putting his camera on the upturned barrel being used as a side table. Two empty beer bottles were on it too. He glanced at Luke. “She’s T-Dud’s daughter.”
Luke nodded.
“The people of Fa La La enjoy talking about family,” she said, keeping her tone friendly. “I’m guessing you’re the new owner of Cypress Island.”
“He is,” Luke said, smiling. “I’m just the lowly carpenter working for him.”
“Actually, he’s my contractor who’s leaving to make sure my windows get ordered.” Luke saluted Camille and walked into what she knew, from when Mr. Gaudet owned it, was a four-room cabin—a kitchen and living room combo, two bedrooms, and a small bathroom. Because it didn’t look like any repairs had been done to the outside of the rusty, tin-roofed cabin, she imagined it still had the same pine vertical paneling and dull terra-cotta-colored linoleum floor inside.
“Have a seat, Doc.” He pointed to the rocker that Luke had vacated. “Say your piece. I can see it in your anxious, studious baby blues that you want to.”
She climbed the steps and sat in the old rocker that was leaning toward Hunter’s because of the awkward slope of the porch. She looked out toward the bayou and Fa La La. It was a point of view that she hadn’t had in a long time. “I swear those cypress trees have grown another ten feet since I was here last.” She compared their heights to that of the houses and buildings at Fa La La that were built on twelve-foot pilings. “They must be fifty or sixty feet.”
“How about that,” Hunt said, looking at her and not the cypresses. She knew he was trying to get her measure, so she wasn’t overly uncomfortable that he was staring at her.
“I’m glad to see they haven’t lost their leaves yet.” She inhaled the clean air, sweetened by the freshly cut lawn around the cabin and the verdant cypresses, wind-sculpted water oaks behind them,
and the knee-high marsh grass edging the island. “The birds love these trees.” She pointed to the umbrella-like tops of the cypresses and the bright green leaves on straight branches that provided refuge to the dozens of white egrets perched there. She glanced at him. “As I’m sure you know. Have you seen any of the migratory birds flying south for the winter yet?”
“Some. I saw some geese and ducks.”
She smiled, but had yet to get one back from him. “In April it’s even better. That’s when you get the neotropical birds through here. If you get lucky, you may even see some that are as colorful as rainbows.” She looked away from the towering trees. “I’m sorry if I’m rambling. I just love it here, and I want everyone to see it as I do.”
“Interesting enough conversation,” he offered. “But I know you’re here for reasons other than to talk about trees and birds.” He motioned with his head toward Fa La La, where a half dozen people had gathered on the main level walkway facing them.
She laughed. “For the record, I’m here on my own account.”
Hunt extended his long legs in front of him as if to tell her that he was totally comfortable in his own skin and she didn’t intimidate him one bit. The fact that his narrow feet were clean and bare and the hems of his faded jeans were as frayed as the fabric over his knees told her that he wasn’t a man worried about impressing others either.
He did seem to care about his body, she noted. He had wide, broad shoulders that tapered to narrow hips. She imagined that his flat stomach would be firm and toned. Whether he worked to achieve that lean, healthy body because of vanity, the pleasure of working out, or for necessity because his job required it, she didn’t know. She also didn’t know why, when she’d seen thousands of male bodies before, his made her pulse increase. Maybe it was because he wasn’t on an examining table and she wasn’t his doctor.
Under The Kissing Bough: 15 Romantic Holiday Novellas Page 31
