Snow on the Bayou: A Tante Lulu Adventure

by Sandra Hill

  Belle shivered. “Terrorists in Loo-zee-anna?”

  Emelie shivered for another reason. “Bernie involved in some special forces operation?”

  They both laughed at that and decided there must have been some other reason. Maybe just what Justin had claimed, that SEALs were tight, and supported each other in times of trouble, like his grandmother’s cancer.

  Once Emelie was alone, she went up to her apartment, gave Thad a bowl of dog food (he ate like a horse), and took out a frozen dinner from Ella’s that she planned to have later. Pouring herself a glass of chilled white wine, she sat down to watch the local TV network’s coverage of Mardi Gras.

  And she tried not to remember the last year she and Justin had watched the event on the small TV in his grandparents’ cottage, where they’d been left alone for an hour. It was amazing what two horny kids could do in an hour. She didn’t even want to consider what two horny adults could do in an hour.

  Maybe watching the Mardi Gras events on TV wasn’t such a good idea.

  And then the other shoe (bomb) dropped…

  Everywhere around him, people were having a great time.

  The music, the drinks, especially the Hurricane drinks, the parade, the bawdy behavior of the men and women on the floats, as well as the streets and balconies. Mardi Gras was nothing new to him, but all his memories of the Carnival events were somehow tied in with Emelie, whom he refused to think about tonight and ruin the good time his friends were having. She’d declined all invitations to watch the parade with them, but he would get to her later, once his friends left town, guar-an-teed. He felt the need to be a host of sorts, one last time.

  Truly, the Mardi Gras parade—all the Mardi Gras events—had to be seen to be believed. Yeah, Carnival was celebrated in other parts of the world, but nothing like this. One float boasted that its artist creator had used a couple million recycled beads for its decorative mosaics. Each krewe vied to outdo the other in their eye-catching parade floats. Gorgeous costumes and masks, some of which might have been designed by Em and Belle. Jazz could be heard everywhere, and laughter. Good times.

  F.U. was going practically ballistic with the ogling of women’s breasts and had to be warned more than once to tone down his language in front of Belle and her sons. Jugs, and hooters, and headlights were not the way men referred to those female parts in mixed company, F.U. had been told, and the idiot had actually wondered what he should call them then.

  JAM was getting along well with Belle, although there didn’t seem to be any serious, long-lasting connection. Geek had brought Adele, Cage’s physical therapist, and they, too, seemed to get along well, but more like friends. Friends with benefits maybe, but no more than that. The other guys were striking up conversations with folks who stepped in and out of the hotel onto the balcony. Bernie’s police officer “friend,” whom he’d become chummy with since their forced living together situation, was here, but Bernie had yet to arrive. In all, for everyone, it was a nice day of camaraderie.

  Even Slick seemed to be more relaxed than usual as they watched the passing parade. “You Cajuns do know how to have a good time,” he conceded.

  “Well, not just Cajuns. Creoles. Native Americans. Whatever,” Cage replied. “We’re a real melting pot here in Loo-zee-anna, more so than other parts of the country, I think.”

  “How much longer do you think you’ll be here, buddy?”

  “Impossible to say. MawMaw’s deteriorating, there’s no question of that, but her doctor tells me that folks have been known to hold on for a really long time when the will is there.”

  “And is the will there for your grandmother to hang on?”

  “Not so much as before. We’ve settled a lot between us, and she feels better that I now know certain things about my dad. To tell you the truth, Slick, and I hate sayin’ this, I hope she dies sooner than later. I just can’t stand the thought of her sufferin’.”

  Slick put a hand on his forearm and squeezed. “I understand completely. No way to live in the latter stages. My aunt… the one who left me my house in Malibu… lingered on for years. It was painful to watch.”

  “She would hate to be tied up to machines in a hospital, and I promised her she would die at home, if possible.” He blinked back the tears in his eyes.

  Suddenly, Slick straightened and put his hand to the phone attached to his side. Cage hadn’t heard anything, but it must have been vibrating. Slick clicked a button, read some text message, then glanced up at the rest of them with horror. “Gentlemen, we have a situation here.”

  Almost immediately, the secure phones of every other SEAL on that balcony went on red alert. Mayday, Mayday! the message said.

  “Situation” didn’t begin to describe this new development. More like a goat fuck of monumental proportions, Cage soon concluded. They’d been blindsided by the tangos.

  Taking them all to the edge of the balcony that curved around the other side, away from the parade street, Slick said quickly, “One of the tangos spilled. There was a fifth box of explosives. In one of the Landry trucks. Parked somewhere here in the French Quarter.”

  “But we examined every one of those vehicles,” JAM said. “And double-checked.”

  “One of the boxes contained false fuses, meant as a decoy,” Slick explained.

  Geek was already clicking away on his iPhone. “It just can’t be. Every single one of the trucks that went in and out of that factory lot has been accounted for. Unless…” Geek looked up with horror. “I think the explosives might be in Bernie’s van.” Then he yelled, “Where’s Bernie?”

  Simone LeDeux, Bernie’s police officer friend, said, “Bernie is parking his van.”

  “Where?” Slick demanded.

  “In his ex-wife’s driveway. About two blocks from here.”

  Ex-wife? Emelie? Cage was already running, practically flying down the stairs. All of the SEALs here were carrying weapons of one type or another. Standard procedure. And pray God that F.U. had his compact bomb deactivation kit in his back pocket. “Are you with me, F.U.?” he shouted without turning around.

  “I’m on your tail, buddy.”

  It was hard wending his way through the crowd until he turned off a side street. Then he ran full-out. He hoped his knee didn’t fail him now. Oh, my God! I’ll never make it. He was on his cell phone to Em at the same time, and of course got the usual frickin’ voice mail. Punching in Bernie’s number, he got nothing, just “Call failed.” Not a good sign.

  He and F.U. kept yelling as they tried to make good time. “Sorry, ma’am!” “Out of the way, out of the way!” “Fuck you, too, buddy!” “Yes, we’re police officers!” Not far behind he could hear some of his other teammates bringing up the rear.

  Em’s place was two blocks away but it felt like two miles. Oh, God! I’ll never make it.

  What was it they’d been told about the capabilities of these bombs? A block or two? The tangos probably figured they could still take out hundreds of folks even from the distance of Em’s street. Oh, my God! Oh, my God! Oh, my God!

  If anyone could dismantle a bomb, it was F.U., but would there be time? Cage could hear everyone on their cells phones as they followed after them, including the police officer. “Secure the perimeter, secure the perimeter!” Slick was shouting.

  Cage’s lungs were burning, and his knee was probably back to injury status by the time he rounded the corner to Em’s shop and apartment. Everything appeared peaceful, and yes, the van was parked under Em’s porte cochere. Bernie was slumped over the wheel, and there was a large box in the rear, visible through a side window.

  “Don’t touch the damn bomb,” F.U. warned. “I’ll take care of the explosives, you take care of the guy.”

  A quick check with a thumb to a pulse point in his neck showed Bernie was alive with a huge lump on the back of his head. Probably coldcocked from behind. JAM arrived and helped to pull him out and carry him away. F.U. went to work on the bomb while K-4 held a huge flashlight that he’d probably knoc
ked off from some shop along the way.

  Cage raced up the back stairs, into Em’s bedroom, through the kitchen, and then the living room, where she was sitting calmly watching the Mardi Gras events on TV with her guard dog, who hadn’t even raised his fool head. “Thank God you’re all right! Come on, hurry.” He yanked on her hand, knocking over a glass of wine, and pulled her toward the front stairway. “Hurry! We’ve gotta get out of here.”

  “Justin! Are you crazy? Let go of me.”

  They were halfway down the stairs. “Bomb! No time!” he huffed out and struggled with the lock on the front door. Once open, he kissed her quickly, said, “I love you, baby,” then shoved her out. His knee gave out, and he went down hard, but only for a moment. “Run. Run as far away as you can, sweetheart.”

  Cops were already setting up roadblocks, and sirens could be heard in the distance. Geek was on his iPhone trying to locate a spot where the van could be driven if the effort to deactivate the bomb failed. In fact, that was exactly what they did moments later. Cage drove with wailing police cars providing point guard in front of him. Geek was in the passenger seat, and F.U. and K-4 were in the back.

  Em watched with horror as the van flew by. She was still running, with Thad at her side, panting for breath… both of them. She didn’t know exactly what was going on, but it seemed as if someone, maybe terrorists, had planted a bomb in Bernie’s van. Oh, no! Had Bernie been killed? But no, she saw him on his back in a small grassy parklet up ahead, being administered to by a man. Bernie was half sitting up, but groggy. Belle came up to Em then and gave her a hug. “Oh, my God! Oh, my God!” they both kept muttering.

  “Is he okay, Slick?” Belle asked the guy leaning over Bernie.

  “Yeah. His head will hurt like hell, but he’ll be okay.”

  Emelie had an aha moment then as she began to put the pieces of the puzzle together. This was why all of Justin’s SEAL friends were hanging around Louisiana. They’d known all along that there was a terrorist threat.

  Just then, in the distance, a huge explosion went off. They, along with any folks still on the street, stared at the huge cloud that rose into the sky.

  The van. The explosives. Justin.

  Emelie and Belle began to weep.

  But Slick held a hand up as he listened to someone on his cell phone. “All parties safe,” he told them.

  “Justin is alive?” Emelie asked.

  “Alive and swearing up a storm.” Slick laughed.

  How could he laugh in the midst of such a barely missed travesty? But then she guessed he… and all SEALs, like Justin… were used to this kind of danger.

  Shivering, Emelie sank to her knees with relief, her brain slowly registering that she’d almost lost Justin. How she could feel like this when she’d actually lost him long ago, she didn’t know. But she was shaken at the prospect of a world without Justin in it.

  What did that mean?

  “That was one son-of-a-bitch close call,” Slick was telling someone on his cell phone. “That building would have been dust and people within five hundred yards, pink mist.” Slick shrugged sheepishly as he realized Em and Belle were listening and the building in question was Emelie’s home. “Sorry.”

  Going back later, Emelie saw that her building was yellow-taped. An officer explained that it was only for the time being. Belle helped Emelie pack a suitcase and went home herself. Both of them were probably in shock. Emelie, with Thad riding shotgun, made her way slowly to her father’s place in Houma.

  Emelie had a lot to think about.

  It would be all in fun, or so they claimed…

  Emelie hadn’t seen Justin since Fat Tuesday, a week ago. She was still avoiding him, although she had spoken to him the day after the averted disaster. She’d told him that she needed time, and he’d agreed reluctantly to wait for her move.

  She’d been so scared, for herself, for the people scurrying away from the potential bomb scene, but mostly for Justin, who’d ridden off in a bomb-laden van. She’d known he had a dangerous job, but to experience it firsthand was another thing altogether.

  And yes, she was proud of him, too. The way he and his teammates had worked together to handle a disaster had been beyond impressive. Although they hadn’t used names or photographs, the local and national news media had given much attention to the bravery and expertise of the SEALs, who just happened to be in the city visiting a friend. Yeah, right.

  Emelie had gotten the scoop from Bernie on the Project Boom mission that had drawn and kept the SEALs in Louisiana for so long. Apparently Justin wasn’t permitted to disclose any of this. She didn’t blame him.

  Emelie was being bombarded with conflicting emotions all the time, and she was considering taking a short vacation. Maybe a cruise.

  She hadn’t given the museum an answer yet, and they’d been very patient and accommodating, believing that she was overstressed by the near explosion on her premises. She also hadn’t made a firm decision on the artificial insemination, although she was leaning in the direction of scrapping it.

  It was in this mood that Emelie agreed to go to a girls’ night out one Friday with Belle and some of her friends. Only after she was in the car and on the way with the laughing women did she find out that their destination was Swampy’s Tavern and a performance by the Cajun Village People, a Tante Lulu extravaganza.

  “Lighten up, Em. It’ll be fun,” Belle promised.

  Emelie had a bad feeling.

  Chapter Nineteen

  If all else fails, just dance…

  Cage was desperate, and desperate men did desperate things. At least, that was what he told himself.

  His buddies had long since gone back to Coronado, taking the birds with them. His grandmother had been playing Elvis’s “I’m So Lonesome I Could Die” so much that he felt like he could do just that. Tante Lulu was egging him on to do something or stop complaining. So he’d agreed to the dingbat’s crazy-ass, last-ditch effort to solve his love problems.

  Yeah, he could have gone back to Em’s place. He could have begged. He could have forced her to listen. But somehow he agreed with Tante Lulu that he needed a grand gesture to convince Em that their love was worth fighting for.

  So here he was standing in the back office of Swampy’s tavern, wearing jeans, cowboy boots, a cowboy shirt that had once belonged to his dad, and a cowboy hat. Em might have asked for nude, but this was as far as he was willing to go in public. He felt like an absolute fool and was nervous as hell, but not as bad as he would feel if he were the other guys, standing around out in the hall waiting to go on the stage where René LeDeux’s band was already playing. There were the LeDeux men… Luc, the lawyer, wearing a business suit with no shirt; John, the cop, with no shirt but a police cap and twirling a baton; Remy, the pilot, whose handsome face had been burned on only one side in an Iraqi battle, wearing an Air Force uniform, unbuttoned; a frowning Rusty Lanier, Charmaine’s husband, in cowboy gear; and a friend of the family, Angel Sabato, as a hunky biker dude.

  And the women in the act were no better, wearing tight spandex dresses of different, vivid colors, even Tante Lulu, who kept telling Cage to have another shot of bourbon to calm his nerves. Any more bourbon and he’d be joining the Cajun Chippenduds or falling over unconscious.

  “She’s here,” Tante Lulu said, peeking into the office. “It’ll all be over soon.”

  “Are you sure this is gonna work?”

  “Sure,” she said, then handed him a little statue of St. Jude, “but mebbe you should say a little prayer jist in case.”

  “Oh, hell!” She thinks I’m hopeless.

  And the star of the show was… oh, no!…

  Emelie was glad she’d come.

  The ladies were all nice, and the music was lively, and the dancing was fun to watch. René LeDeux, a teacher and former environmental activist, was entertaining the crowd with his band, The Swamp Rats.

  Part of the reason for her good mood might be the oyster shooters that everyone kept pushing on h
er. She was feeling a little woozy.

  There had been a hefty door charge when they entered to benefit a charity of Tante Lulu’s. Apparently, every so often she and her family put on this outrageous show for a good cause, and folks didn’t mind paying for the experience.

  Just then René LeDeux put up both hands to silence the crowd. “Folks, we have a special treat for you tonight, as you know. The Cajun Village People.”

  Much applause and wolf whistles and hooting greeted his words.

  Starting with “Macho Man,” the band played, except they substituted “Cajun” for “Macho” and the crowd sang along with them, especially when each of the hunky LeDeux men and their friends put on a sexy performance. Not quite the Chippendales, as in stripteases, although John LeDeux had a good time showing everyone how he could dance and twirl a baton at the same time in a most suggestive way.

  When the ladies came shimmying out to “I’m Sexy and I Know It,” René introduced each of them by saying, “This is Sylvie LeDeux, a shy chemist married to my brother Luc.” Sylvie glared at René, then rolled her hips into the rump of her husband, who grinned wickedly at her. “And Rachel LeDeux, a decorator who has feng shuied my brother Remy into about a dozen kids. I’ve lost count.” Rachel did a little shimmy, too, which seemed to embarrass her husband, who had an ugly burn mark on one side of his face only. The other side was gorgeous. “Then there is Celine LeDeux, who usta be a reporter but now has a full-time job tryin’ ta keep my brother John in line.” John didn’t give Celine a chance to blush or shimmy or anything; he just tugged her into a front-to-back embrace and dirty danced her across the stage. She kept slapping at him but the crowd loved it. Next came Grace Sabato, a friend of the family, a former nun, and a professional poker player, of all things. She was now married to Angel, the biker dude, who pretended to roar a motorcycle right up to her. Charmaine had to coax her glaring husband, Rusty, a rancher, out on the stage by shimmying up and down his backside. Finally he grabbed her by the arm and they both walked out. “And of course there is my wife, Valerie, a lawyer, who has threatened to sue the pants off me more times than I can count, but I always tell her, ‘Honey, all ya gotta do is ask.’ ” Shaking her head at his foolishness, Valerie came out and let René swing her around several times under his arm before pulling her close.