Southern Charmed

by Melanie Jacobson

  As we pulled into the parking lot, I spotted a set of yellow lights flashing. “Is that a district vehicle? That’s kind of weird to have one here this late in the day.” The mystery grew when I realized it was parked by my car. The side read “Pilcher’s Towing,” and I groaned. “Why would they tow me?”

  “Better find out.” Max cruised into the neighboring space.

  I was out of the car before he could get out to open my door. “Excuse me,” I called to the driver in the idling tow truck. “Are you towing me?”

  “Hey, Lila?” Max said.

  I held up a hand to indicate I’d be with Max in a second, another teacher habit. “Because I don’t think I’m parked illegally.”

  The driver blinked at me. “You’re not. I’m here to change a tire.”

  It was my turn to blink. Max cleared his throat. “I made a call. I have Triple-A, and I can use it for any car I want. I figured we might as well get your flat fixed.”

  “I thought you said you learned how to fix a tire in Boy Scouts.”

  “The Scoutmaster started by telling us we’d make our lives much easier if we got Triple-A.”

  “Smart Scoutmaster,” I said.

  The driver climbed out of his truck, which I could now see had the distinctive AAA logo under the tow company name.

  “Do you have a spare?”

  I nodded and popped the trunk. Max rummaged around under the carpeting to find it. I knew I should be a modern-enough woman to insist I could do all of this myself, but Max was doing it exactly how Daddy would have, and it was good to be looked out for this time. Maybe a lot of times.

  Fifteen minutes later, I had my spare on and a reference from the tow guy on where to get a replacement. As the tow truck drove off, Max jingled his keys. “What else do you have on your list to check out?”

  “Leonard’s, the Cajun place over in Port Allen.” It was a bar, and somehow I didn’t think the stake would go for a dance at a place with flashing Abita Beer signs on the walls. But I very much wanted to drag Max through the full Louisiana experience, and nothing would be better than Leonard’s.

  To his credit, he didn’t question me. I wondered how hard of a fight it was for him to keep an open mind about this purely ridiculous suggestion.

  “All right. Leonard’s it is,” he said.

  “Can you do Friday right before the supper rush so he has time to talk?”

  “That’s fine. Should I pick you up for this one? I solemnly swear I won’t think it’s a date just because we have to do some conference research in suspiciously date-like circumstances.”

  “Are you accusing me of something?”

  “I’m too afraid of you. What time should I pick you up for this non-date trip to a restaurant and dance club on a Friday night?”

  I punched his arm. “Very funny. Five o’clock. Leonard says dinner service doesn’t start hopping until seven. That should give us enough time.”

  “Five, then. See you Friday.” He almost took a step toward me but stopped and changed direction.

  Had he been about to hug me? I wanted to call him back so he would do it. Instead, I got in my car and drove home, listening to NPR and refusing to think about Max, except I had to shove him out of my brain about a hundred times. I wished it was like exercising, where the muscle in question got stronger with every rep. But Max only proved harder and harder to push away.

  Chapter 9

  “Are you sure about this?” Max’s eyebrows tried to climb into his perfect hairline and hide there.

  “You don’t trust me?”

  “I did until we pulled into this parking lot.”

  We stood in front of the dilapidated building, “Leonard” spelled out in peeling paint above the door. Neon liquor signs flashed in the blacked-out windows.

  “You ready?”

  “No.”

  “Great. Let’s go in.”

  We pushed through the door, the smell of stale alcohol and warm cooking grease washing over us. A bartender glanced up from behind the bar, but there was no one else inside.

  “Hey,” I said. “We’re looking for Leonard.”

  “He expecting you?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right, have a seat, and I’ll fetch him.”

  We chose a table in front of the bar, and she disappeared into the kitchen hollering “Leonard!”

  Max studied the space, from the stage in the corner to the well-worn dance floor. “It’s bigger inside than I thought it would be.”

  I loved that he was trying hard to give a fair chance to a clearly terrible idea. “Plenty of room, even if everyone hits the floor at the same time.”

  He nodded, no expression on his face. The kitchen door opened again, and a short, wrinkled man emerged. He was eighty if he was a day.

  “Welcome to my place,” he said, reaching our table in the fastest shuffle I’d ever seen. He flipped a chair around and straddled it as he joined us. “What questions can I answer for you?” He had a distinct Cajun accent, and I loved it.

  “Have you ever had church groups rent your place for a dance?”

  His eyes twinkled. “Church? No. Plenty of biker groups though.”

  “What church are y’all from?” the bartender called. “Sounds like one I want to go to.”

  “We’re Mormons, and we’d be glad to have you,” Max said.

  The bartender set her rag down and stared at us. “You’re yanking my chain. Mormons don’t dance.”

  “Oh, they do, Donna,” Leonard said before either of us could defend ourselves. “Back in the fifties, some of the best dancing I ever did was with a pair of Mormon sisters who snuck out of their house every Saturday night to come in here and cut a rug. Didn’t drink, but they tore up the floor like they were possessed.”

  Max looked like he was caught between laughing and cringing. I made a note to ask Mom if she knew which two scandalous sisters Leonard might be referring to.

  “Now tell me about this no-drinking thing,” Leonard said. “That’s going to cost me money. It’s some health thing y’all have, ain’t it?”

  “Yes, sir. It’s a code we live by because God asked us to. But don’t you love the idea of having at least one night where you don’t have to bust any heads because your patrons got too rowdy?” I wheedled.

  He waved that off with a chuckle. “Rowdy keeps it interesting. And it’s all that alcohol that pays the bills. I’d have to charge you for an average night’s drink sales to make it worth my while.”

  “That’s going to be out of our budget,” Max said.

  “That’s too bad,” I told Leonard. “I was hoping to show our out-of-towners what it looks like to have a good time, south-Louisiana style.” I crooked my head to indicate that Max was not schooled in the ways of laissez les bon temps rouler—let the good times roll—the semiofficial state motto.

  “Didn’t think you sounded like you was from around here.” Leonard cocked his head. “You ain’t seen it done like we do?”

  “I guess I ain’t,” Max said.

  Leonard grinned at Max’s imitation of his grammar and showed a mouthful of blinding dentures. “I’m sorry to hear we can’t reach a business agreement, but y’all need to let me treat you to a little taste of Leonard’s. Delmond!” he called, and a huge black guy stuck his head out of the kitchen door. “This guy here had the great misfortune to grow up above the Mason-Dixon line. Probably ain’t ever had a decent meal in his life. Set him up with somethin’ good and show him what he’s been missing.”

  “Yeah, boss.” Delmond disappeared.

  Leonard smacked the table and cackled. “This is going to be fun, Yankee. Sit tight. Good things are coming your way.” He pushed himself up from his chair and tottered toward the kitchen, calling out something about boudin.

  Max watched him go and blinked at me. “Two questions: First, do you really call non-Southerners Yankees down here?”

  “Only when we’re messing with people.”

  “That’s what I thought.
Second, boudin. Is this one of those things where I don’t want to confirm the ingredients?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “That’s also what I thought.”

  “You’re taking this well. I’ve seen people’s faces prune right up at the idea of eating boudin.”

  “I guess Madagascar broke me in. I’m game to try anything once.”

  “What theme would you have gone with if we’d had the dance here?”

  Max snorted. “What about another Elder Ballard classic? Rais—”

  “Don’t say it!”

  “Raising the bar?”

  I fell out laughing, and the suggestions only got worse.

  When Leonard made his way back to our table, he squinted at us. “Y’all sure Mormons don’t drink? Because y’all are exhibiting all the signs.”

  “No, sir, we don’t. We know how to act a fool all on our own,” I said.

  He smiled and set down some fragrant bell peppers. “These here are boudin stuffed, and if you want to know why it tastes so good, it’s ’cause I passed my hand over it.”

  “That sounds exactly like something my granddaddy would say,” I told him.

  “Then your grandaddy must know how to cook. Now, y’all need to come back on gumbo day. I make it with a secret ingredient.”

  “If I ask nicely, will you tell me what it is?” I said.

  He winked at me. “I’ll tell you just for being pretty. I stir it with my finger!” And with another cackle, he headed back to the kitchen.

  Max snatched up his fork. “Nothing that smells this good could taste bad, right?”

  I was already cutting into my own bell pepper. “Take the leap.” Even my eyes widened at the rich flavor.

  “Oh man,” Max said. “I want to shovel it all in, but then it’ll disappear too fast.”

  “You’re always in too much of a rush, Max. Savor it.” I took another bite, and a happy sigh escaped me.

  A few minutes later, Leonard shuffled back. “How y’all like it?”

  “So good,” I said.

  “Amen,” Max said.

  Leonard laughed. “I’ll send out more. Where you from anyway, son?”

  “Philadelphia.”

  “They got anything good to eat there?”

  “Philly cheesesteaks. They’re sandwiches.”

  “Heard of them. Don’t sound too bad. But I’m going to go you one better. Sit tight.” He disappeared toward the kitchen again, and we finished our green peppers in silence.

  I was too in love with the food to use my mouth for talking.

  Leonard came back bearing two full plates, and when he set them down, Max’s eyes nearly bugged out. “I brought y’all my special sampler platter. It’s so good it’ll make you jump up and slap your mama. That means,” he said, with a pointed look at Max, “that it’s going to be the best cooking you’ve had in a while. Delmond don’t mess around.”

  “Did you pass your hand over it?” Max asked.

  “I did.” Blinding white grin.

  “Then I believe you.”

  “Good. I never lie about food. You got some collard greens, red beans and rice, fried catfish, hot links, hush puppies, smothered chicken, and fried okra. It’s a little bit of everything, and I expect y’all to finish them plates off, you hear?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  “I’mma be watching you. I better not see them forks stop for too long,” he said, turning toward the bar. “And what do y’all drink, anyway? Can you have a Coke?”

  “Yes, sir,” I assured him.

  “What kind?”

  “Sprite.”

  Max looked perplexed at my answer.

  “We call everything a Coke here,” I explained.

  “Which kind you want?” Leonard prompted him.

  “An actual Coke?”

  “You got it.” Leonard nodded at the bartender and disappeared into the kitchen.

  Max held up his fork, and I tapped it with mine. “See you on the other side,” he said.

  I started with the catfish. He went for the smothered chicken, and we both moaned at the exact same time.

  “I can’t even talk to you until all of this food is gone,” he said, bliss all over his face.

  I only nodded since I was already working on another bite. By the time we finished off our plates, several tables had filled, and a five-piece band was setting up on the stage. I pointed at them taking out their instruments. “Check it out.”

  An upright bass was now resting against the back wall, and a middle-aged woman with big hair was strapping on an accordion. An older gentlemen took out a fiddle and tuned it. As the noise drifted out over the diners, heads turned, and the energy in the room shifted from relaxed to a coiled-up waiting, like horses behind a starting gate.

  “Where’s the drummer?” Max asked, raising his voice to be heard over the tuning and mic checks.

  I shook my head. “Traditional Cajun bands use the bass for rhythm, no drums. No brass either. Those are for jazz.”

  He took his last bite of red beans and rice before he twisted in his chair to watch. Three servers now worked the tables, busing empty plates and glasses back to the kitchen at a faster clip.

  Leonard reappeared at our table. “Sugar, you know your two step?”

  “I was raised right. Yes.”

  He grinned and held out a hand. “I’m stealing your girl,” he said to Max, winking. Then he nodded at the band, who swung into a cover of one of my favorite BeauSoleil songs, and we were off, Leonard guiding me around the floor with strong hands and a toothy grin for the regulars, who hooted. Our second time around the floor, more couples joined us. When the song finished up, the crowd hollered, and the band went right into a jitterbug while Leonard escorted me back to my table.

  “You ain’t bad, sweetheart. You ain’t bad at all.”

  “That’s only because you made me look good.” I kissed him on his cheek, which set off another cackle.

  “You hear that, son? And now your girl is kissing me too! You better take her out on that floor before I steal her away from you.” Leonard shuffled off before Max could even get all the way to his feet.

  “I mean to respect my elders,” he said, holding a hand out for me to take.

  “You know how to Cajun jitterbug?”

  “I took ballroom at BYU. It’s close enough that I think I can follow.”

  We stepped out on the floor. He put his right hand on my waist and bounced with the beat a couple of times, getting the rhythm but watching me, not the other dancers.

  “Might be easier to start with the waltz,” I called over the music.

  “Have a little faith.” Then, with a gentle touch, he guided us into the circling dancers and matched my steps easily.

  Oh, he was good. Just the right amount of pressure on my hand and waist, confident without making me feel like I was being manhandled.

  The song finished, and a waltz started. He pulled me into a waltz hold. “Is this okay?”

  “It’s not a date,” I blurted. Because I needed reminding.

  “Okay,” he said and kissed my forehead. “Will you still waltz with me?”

  I followed his lead instead of answering, too dazed from the touch of his lips to think much.

  He pulled me into a close hold, closer than he needed to, but I didn’t care. We floated around the dance floor again, only separating when he spun me before pulling me close again. The blood pounding in my head muted the band, the music coming at me through a haze. The whole dance hall shrank down to become just us somehow. A dim awareness that the music was slowing filtered through the tension between Max and me, and I willed the band to do another verse. I didn’t want to stop.

  But we did, at the edge of the dance floor near our table, only Max didn’t let go. He pulled me closer and settled my head beneath his chin, swaying with me in a slow dance that had nothing to do with the two-step playing now.

  I closed my eyes, time melting away, people melting away, until Max asked a que
stion, soft in my ear, and delicious tingles rocketed down my spine.

  “What are we doing?”

  We swayed for several more measures before I answered. “I don’t know.”

  “What is this? Because it’s something. To me, it’s something.”

  I leaned back enough to meet his eyes. “Me too.”

  He stepped back but kept my hand in his, drawing me over to our table only to find the waitress clearing it. “Can we get the check?” he asked.

  “Go on with you.” She shooed him off. “Leonard said it was on the house. Pay us back by telling your friends if you liked it.”

  “We will,” he said. When she headed toward the kitchen with the last of our silverware, Max left a big tip on the table. “You ready to go?”

  I nodded, even though I wasn’t. Part of me wanted to stay on the dance floor with him. Part of me wanted to avoid the discussion that was about to happen. But mostly I wanted to freeze time and walk around in this moment some more, just feeling it without considering what it meant.

  We walked out to his car in the nearly full parking lot. He leaned against the door. My heart did a weird skip beat. “Max—”

  “I know,” he said. “You don’t want to date. But why? It feels like we have chemistry. Do you feel it? Tell me you don’t, and I’ll drop it.”

  I couldn’t meet his eyes.

  He reached out for my hand, tangling our fingers together. “Go out with me. For real. The kind of date where we see what can happen between us.”

  “There’s no point. What if it’s amazing?” I could barely get my voice above a whisper because they were words I didn’t want to say.

  “Then it’ll be amazing,” he answered. “Why is that bad?”

  “Because you’re leaving Baton Rouge as soon as you can, and I never will.”

  “I’ve never felt this kind of a pull toward someone before.” He hesitated, like he wanted to add something, but he swallowed and fell quiet again.

  I didn’t have anything to say. All I wanted to add was words I had to hold back. I want this.