Snow on the Bayou: A Tante Lulu Adventure

by Sandra Hill

  And speaking of Charmaine. In walked the self-proclaimed bimbo with class, Charmaine LeDeux-Lanier. In keeping with her image, she wore an outfit that matched Tante Lulu’s… their going-to-Piggly-Wiggly-Supermarket attire, he supposed. Except that Charmaine’s jeans were painted on, her Ragin’ Cajun T-shirt was two sizes too small, and instead of sneakers she wore high-heeled red shoes. Her black hair was teased to high heaven, her eyelashes could fan a little wind of their own, and her lips were shiny with sexy red gloss. Lordy, Lordy!

  He and JAM and Geek exchanged looks… and grinned. Really, a guy couldn’t help but look when a woman like Charmaine walked in the room.

  She winked, knowing exactly what effect she had on men. “You ready, hon?” she asked her aunt.

  “Yep. You boys gonna be all right while I’m gone?”

  They all nodded, still transfixed by the bayou sexpot.

  “While I’m gone, you kin do all yer secret SEAL bizness with the house empty. No need ta be whisperin’ lak I’m some All Cado spy or sumpin’.”

  “She means al-Qaeda,” Charmaine translated.

  “Thass what I said.” Tante Lulu slapped her niece with a St. Jude towel, then folded it to hang from the oven handle. “If the phone rings, doan answer. It’s prob’ly someone needin’ my folk healin’ services. They kin jist leave a message. Or else it’s that Jeremy Chevaux wantin’ a date. The ol’ fart’s lookin’ fer a love connection ever since he discovered Vi-ag-ra.”

  On those words, Charmaine steered her aunt toward the door, making sure the old lady took her purse with her. Think fake leather, purple saddlebag the size of… let’s say… a Buick.

  Navy SEALs had pretty much seen and heard it all, but Cage and JAM and Geek were shocked by Tante Lulu’s insinuation that she might be getting it on with some old coot. The picture would be imprinted on his brain forever.

  “Do you think she’s serious?” Cage asked when he managed to click his jaw shut.

  “Probably. You won’t believe some of the stuff she comes out with,” JAM said. “And she seems to think I’ve got some connections with St. Jude, like a personal pipeline up to heaven.”

  “She’s got a heart as big as the heavens, though,” Geek pointed out. “I never met anyone so generous, and I’ve gotta tell you, she is an accomplished folk healer. I’ve been helping her collate all her recipes and potions into a computer file. She could write a book, especially with the stories she has to tell about the different herbs she uses and the folks she’s used them on. Apparently several people have tried to help her organize them in the past, but something more important always comes up. She claims that she’s been approached by publishers, and I believe her.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Cage said. “Tante Lulu has been a legend on the bayou for as long as I can remember.” He helped himself to a platter of sausage, eggs, and toast, even though he’d already had breakfast, before saying, “Okay. Down to business. What’s new with the pyrotechnics plant?”

  “Well, Geek and I are going to start work there tomorrow. I’ll be on the assembly line, and Geek’ll be the new accountant.”

  “It’s not just the two fellows Bernie suspected at first,” Geek elaborated, tapping away at his laptop. “There are at least five inside the plant, including a truck driver.” Geek turned his laptop so that Cage could see photos of the five men in question.

  “There’s a woman in Lafayette who rented them a three-bedroom apartment six months ago. They’re all living there.”

  “Al-Qaeda?”

  “We think so,” Geek said. “Or least some al-Qaeda cell.”

  “I think they’re planning something around Mardi Gras,” JAM said.

  “It makes sense, you know,” Cage said as he wolfed down the food, which was incredibly good. “Explosives, fireworks. Real bombs, cherry bombs. Things that go boom, and things that make a lesser boom.”

  “I’m going to rent an apartment in the same building today. In fact, two of them,” Geek informed Cage. “That way there’ll be room for K-4, Magnusson, and Slick when they get here, and we’ll be better able to set up our satellite equipment in a secure location. Bernie said we could use his house, but it’s best we’re not linked to the boss.”

  Cage nodded. “Any decision on informing local police or FBI?” Cage asked.

  “That’s up to CentCom. Should know more this afternoon,” JAM said.

  “Tante Lulu has a nephew in the Lafayette Police Department. He used to work in Fontaine, but he transferred to Lafayette last year,” Cage told them. “Maybe we could start with him without attracting any special attention.”

  “Good idea. I’ll mention it to the commander when I talk to him.”

  “What do you want me to do? I can come to Lafayette as needed, but I don’t want to leave my grandmother for any long periods.”

  “We understand that. The main thing we need from you is a calming hand with your cousin Bernie. He’s a basket case, and we’re afraid he’s going to blow our cover if he doesn’t calm down.”

  “First off, Bernie isn’t really my cousin. Our grandmothers were like second or third cousins or something. Second, I don’t like the bastard. Third, I’ll do whatever I can. He’s comin’ here today, isn’t he?”

  “Yep. Should be here any minute,” Geek said. “On another subject…” Geek pulled out a folded newspaper from under a pile of documents and pointed to a large ad. The newspaper was a New Orleans weekly, and the page in question was from the entertainment section. The ad was for Ella’s supper club in the French Quarter, featuring Italian-Cajun food, whatever that was, and jazz/blues music. “I didn’t know your girlfriend was a singer.”

  “Huh?” Peering closer, Cage saw the itinerary for the week, various singing acts and bands. The Saturday night headliner was blues singer Emelie Gaudet. He guessed that made sense. Emelie always did have musical talent, as well as artistic talent, as evidenced by her Mardi Gras masks. She’d even taken voice lessons at one time. Well, well, well, he thought. She might be able to ignore my phone calls, but she for damn sure won’t ignore me when I’m sitting front row center.

  “I assume by the shit-eating grin on your face that you’re going clubbing tonight,” JAM remarked.

  “You bet your ass I am. If I can find a babysitter for my grandmother.” He looked at Geek.

  “Only if I can raise the ante on our poker games to a quarter,” Geek said with a grin.

  “Buddy, you can raise it to a dollar if you make it a sleepover.”

  Geek and JAM both said, “Hoo-yah!”

  Chapter Eleven

  Stormy weather on the horizon…

  Emelie was about to begin her first set at Ella’s.

  She adjusted the spaghetti straps of her black silk sheath dress to cover some of her overexposed cleavage and tugged the hem over her ample hips, down to mid-thigh. The dress accentuated her small waist, her best asset, in her own opinion, though men’s eyes homed in on those other, more obvious parts. Her glittery silver stiletto heels matched the dangly silver earrings and the glittery combs that held her hair, a mass of curls tonight, off her face, which was heavily made up to cover the shadows under her eyes.

  Normally she looked forward to performing, but tonight she had butterflies. She was off her game; she could just feel it.

  The three-piece house band—piano, guitar, and trumpet players—had been on for the past half hour. Now Ella stepped out onto the little stage, more like a raised dais in the corner, and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, please give a N’awleans welcome our very own Emelie Gaudet.”

  There was a full house tonight, which meant twenty tables of up to eighty people total, and they welcomed Emelie with resounding applause. She was a favorite of some of them. In fact, the nightspot was popular because it served meals during the entertainment in the old style, which some people still appreciated.

  She walked over to the mic and said, “Hello, everyone. Welcome to the Crescent City and to Ella’s. I think my first song is appropriate, c
onsidering all the rain we’ve had lately.” Then she eased with a low alto range, accompanied only by the piano, into that old Lena Horne song “Stormy Weather.” Funny thing, Emelie didn’t have a husky voice in normal conversation, but when she sang, it came out that way.

  Once she began to sing, Emelie relaxed. All her troubles disappeared. Stress melted away. There was only her and the music. She was taken back to her MawMaw Gaudet’s parlor in her little house next door to theirs outside Houma. Clear as day, she recalled her grandmother singing along with all the old blues singers playing on the record player. Etta James, Bessie Smith, Nina Simone, Billie Holiday, Lena Horne, Ella Fitzgerald. She especially remembered Billie Holiday wailing out, “God Bless the Child.”

  Some people likened the clear tones of Emelie’s voice to a combination of Norah Jones and Alicia Keys. Quite a compliment! Obviously, she was not as good, not even close, and never would have been even if she’d continued voice lessons, but that was all right. She’d never aspired to fame as a singer. Besides, her grandmother had died soon after Emelie’s fourteenth birthday, and no one had ever encouraged her on a musical path after that. In fact, her father had banned “that sinful trash” from the house. If it hadn’t been for her hiding the precious records in the attic, he would have destroyed them all.

  After that first song, she morphed from one blues favorite to another, sometimes with the piano as the only musical background, but other times also joined in by the lonesome wail of the trumpet, or the syncopated rhythm of the guitar. She sang all her favorites, which luckily appealed to the crowd, as evidenced by their applause and the fact that some of them stopped eating to listen more attentively. “Nobody Knows You When You’re Down and Out.” “Ain’t Nobody’s Business If I Do.” “Lover Man.” “Give It Up or Let Me Go.”

  Near the end of her first set, she looked out at the audience and noticed the tall man leaning against the bar at the back of the room. He wore jeans, a white T-shirt, and a dark sport coat. His hair was short and his eyes were piercing in intensity as he concentrated on her.

  Justin.

  Her heart skipped a beat and she missed a few words of the next stanza, then she looked away and forced herself to concentrate on her singing. But it was hard, and she couldn’t help herself from glancing his way from time to time. Especially when, launching into the last song of her set, the poignant Etta James classic “At Last,” she noticed Justin moving slowly along the side of the room until he was only several feet away, staring at her with such surprise on his face. And joy. When she ended the song, he applauded loudest. She told the crowd she would be back in fifteen minutes, and if they had any requests, she would be glad to sing them if she could.

  No sooner had she stepped off the stage than Justin took her by the upper arm and guided her to the side into an employee’s corridor.

  “Oh, babe!” was all he said.

  “Did you like my singing?”

  “Would you be offended if I said your voice turns me on?”

  She smiled, the wicked kind of smile women had perfected over the ages to torture men. She hoped Justin felt a little bit tortured. “Well, I wouldn’t want to have that effect on everyone.”

  “Just me,” he insisted with a growl, then pulled her into his arms and kissed her with both hunger and tenderness.

  This was not the time or the place, and they both recognized that fact.

  Pulling back, she asked, “Does that mean you liked my singing?”

  He twisted one of her spiral curls around a forefinger and tugged her closer. “Sweetheart, I love all of it. I love your singing. I love your body in that sexy dress. I love your bed-mussed hair and hot red lipstick. I love your passion… for everything you do. I love your talent.”

  What he didn’t say was that he loved her, but that was okay. She hadn’t expected that. Not really. Okay, a little. But it would have felt phony to her.

  “What I don’t love is that I had to find out about your singing in a newspaper. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Men! Honestly! “You didn’t ask. Besides, you haven’t been around for, oh, seventeen years.”

  He winced.

  “I had no reason to think you’d be interested.”

  “If you know nothing else, know that I’ve always been interested.”

  What was that supposed to mean?

  “Why aren’t you recording your music? Why aren’t you singing on some TV program? American Idol or The Voice, if nothing else?”

  “I’m not that good.” He was about to protest, but she put up a halting hand. “Really. I have a passable voice, good enough for a local gig, but not for the big time. Besides, I’ve always concentrated more on visual arts than music. Any fame I garner will have to be for my masks.”

  He nodded and then smiled at her.

  “What?”

  “I’m happy that you continued with your music.”

  Despite your having dumped me? she wanted to say, but didn’t want to bring up the subject. “I didn’t for a long time,” was all she was willing to admit.

  He cocked his head to the side in question.

  Ella popped her head around the corner. “Are you all right, Emelie?”

  “Yes.” She introduced Justin as an old friend to Ella, who nodded, but didn’t smile, as if she sensed Justin was bad news for her. Which, of course, he was.

  “Are you ready to come back for your second set soon?”

  “I’ll be there in a minute.” She liked to circulate through the crowd first to get any special requests.

  “I’ll wait for you,” Justin said when she was about to go.

  “You don’t have to wait.”

  “Oh, yes, I do. I really do.” On those words, he pressed her up against the wall and kissed her with a raw sound deep in his throat. His hands rubbed the silk fabric of her dress against her butt. His tongue explored her mouth. His erection pressed against her belly. If he was trying to give her a message, it couldn’t have been clearer than a blinking neon sign: I WANT YOU, I WANT YOU, I WANT YOU!

  She was the one who made a raw sound deep in her throat then.

  He drew away from her reluctantly and said in a hoarse whisper, “I’ll wait.”

  As a wise old philosopher, Toby Keith, once said, “I’m not talkin’ ’bout forever, I’m just talkin’ ’bout tonight…”

  Cage walked hand in hand with Em down the late-night streets of the French Quarter. Despite it being off-season and rather chilly for the South, there were still people going in and out of restaurants or bars or seedier establishments. The Quarter never slept.

  He had never loved Em more than he did at this moment, and he was scared. Scared at the intensity of his feelings. Scared of where this reignited love would take him, or not take him. Scared because this love was not going to end in happily ever after. More like happily until dawn. With a little closure, or if he was lucky, a lot of closure, he could return to Coronado and no longer be haunted by dreams of what might have been.

  As if sensing his intentions before he’d left tonight, MawMaw had said to him, “Doan play with that girl, Justin, lessen yer serious.”

  Serious? No way. Just a little fun between friends who happen to love each other. “We’re just friends.”

  “Pfff! Some folks drink from the fountain of knowledge; others jist gargle. I never took ya fer a gargler. Doan be a fool, boy. Ya could hurt that girl bad.”

  “What about me?” he’d asked, a little offended.

  “Yer both playin’ with fire.” She’d patted him on the hand. “I doan want you hurt either.”

  “I thought you liked Em at one time.”

  “I did. I do.” She’d paused as if wondering whether to say something. Then she did, and he wished she hadn’t. “If ya ever decide ta stay here in the bayou, I want it should be because thass what ya want more than anythin’. Doan be like yer daddy. He shoulda gone ta Nashville lak he allus planned, but he stayed fer yer mama, and lived ta regret it.”

  He wasn’t at
all like his father, who’d played a mean guitar at one time and had dreams of the Grand Ol’ Opry. Instead, he’d landed in the Grand Ol’ Prison. Cage played the guitar himself on occasion. Poorly. But some women liked to hear him play.

  His father was a subject he refused to discuss, ever. Without responding, he’d kissed his grandmother on her old lady, parchment-like skin and left.

  Now that he had Em at his side, letting him hold her one hand while she held an Ella’s take-out bag in the other, he wasn’t about to let her go ’til they were both satisfied. He was going to be in her bed within the hour, or die trying.

  “Why are you grinning?” she asked.

  “You don’t want to know,” he said and tugged her into his side, putting an arm around her shoulder. With her high heels, they fit together just right. Maybe he’d make love to her with those heels on and nothing else.

  Or maybe he’d have her sing to him, some sexy blues song, while leaning against the open French doors of her bedroom leading out onto the balcony, assuming she had French doors in her bedroom. She would be naked, except for those high heels, while she sang, her eyes being held by his as he lay on her bed, also naked, of course, with his hands folded behind his head. The anticipation would be excruciating. Foreplay without even touching.

  “I know what you’re thinking.”

  What? No way!

  “And it’s not going to happen.”

  “It?”

  “Sex?”

  “Define sex.”

  “I mean it, Justin. This was nice. Your coming to hear me sing. Walking me home. But that’s the end of it.”

  “That kiss didn’t feel like an ending.”

  “That kiss was a mistake. Consider it a good-bye kiss.”

  Not. A. Friggin’. Chance!

  “I’m sure we’ll run into each other now and then while you’re still in Loo-zee-anna, and I’d like to visit Miss MaeMae occasionally before she… well, while she can still have visitors. Friends… can’t we just be friends now?”

  “Friends with benefits?”