by Sandra Hill
That’s when all the events of the day, the nostalgia, the jarred memories, good and so painful they still made her heart hurt in her chest, took their toll. There was only so much a lady could take.
Louise, for only the second time in her life, fell into a dead faint.
Chapter 1
1942
Begin the Beguine…
“Son of a gun!” Lt. Phillipe Prudhomme exclaimed the instant that he saw Louise Rivard in the white clingy dress and the strappy high heels, dancing her pretty little ass off at the USO in New Orleans. Sure as bayou mud stinks, he was a goner. Big trouble incoming!
He had dated Louise a few times the summer following his graduation as an ensign from the Naval Academy four years ago, prior to his entering medical school. But it had been nothing serious. His relationships with women never were. How could they be? In many ways, he was married to Uncle Sam, who owned his sorry ass for the next ten or more years.
A small price to pay for a free education, he supposed. Hell, it was the only way a poor bayou boy would have ever been able to afford college, especially during the Depression. And he had to be grateful for the rare exemption he’d been given to postpone his active duty commitment in order to complete medical school first.
In any case, Louise had only been sixteen at the time. A kid.
Now, thanks to Pearl Harbor, Phillipe had put his medical career plans on hold after only two years of med school, and gone active. And Louise Rivard was no longer a child. Mon Dieu, was that an understatement! There must be something in the bayou air to bring about this transformation. Or else, he’d been blind four years ago.
His pawpaw had warned him that this would happen one day. “Ya think yer immune, boy. Ya think plannin’ yer life out is cut and dry, like love will fit inta yer schedule. But wait and see. It happens ta all the Prudhomme men in our family. We call it the Prudhomme Whammy. You’ll be walkin’ along, free and easy, and wham bam! There’ll she be. The one! And yer free ’n easy days’ll be over. Guar-an-teed! It happened ta me when I was only seventeen. Dint happen ta yer Uncle James till he was forty-six. It comes when it comes. And it ain’t jist the pretty gals that do the trick, either. Mah second cousin, Louis, fell lak a rock when he first saw Mabel, and she’s homely as a mud hen, bless her heart.”
Phillipe had laughed at the time. What young man believed an old geezer like his grandfather had any wisdom about modern times, or about Phillipe in particular since he was different from everyone in his Cajun family? They told him so all the time.
Could the old man possibly be right? Phillipe was for damn sure standing in the middle of the crowded social club, gawking at the girl like a swabbie on his first ship, when, in fact, he was a twenty-six-year-old lieutenant junior grade officer whose Naval Academy nickname had been Prudie, and not just because of his surname. Phillipe had maintained an almost prudish attitude toward women in his single-minded quest to succeed, requiring focus, focus, focus.
Focus be damned at the moment. His heart was beating so fast, he could scarcely breathe, and every fine hair on his body stood at attention. A certain part might even salute if he wasn’t careful.
“Hubba hubba! Who’s the dish?” Petty Officer Franklin Mitchell asked, elbowing Phillipe in the ribs to get his attention. Mitch, a Yankee from Boston, had latched onto Phillipe like a shrimp boat barnacle ever since they’d left the Bourbon Street wedding reception an hour ago for their buddy, Beauregard Breaux. Yeah, Bo Bro. Corny as only a Southern name could be. The three of them would be part of the new S & R unit, Amphibious Scouts and Raiders, being formed shortly in Little Creek, Virginia. Frogmen.
He never would have stopped at the USO if not for Mitch’s urging. Not his thing. Besides, the male/female ratio was at least ten to one.
“It’s Louise Rivard from down Bayou Black,” Phillipe replied to Mitch’s question.
“You know her?”
Mitch’s surprise was kind of insulting. Phillipe hadn’t been that celibate…aka, focused. But maybe he meant that Phillipe was known to be kind of stiff in his mannerisms, not usually a magnet for hot women. And Louise was hot! “I don’t know her know her,” he said, not about to disclose his few past “dates.” Such revelation would only make him seem even more of a knucklehead. “She’s about six years younger than me. I went to the academy right after high school, and she was probably still in elementary school then.” And she looked nothing like this sultry siren when I was back here four years ago.
As he watched (Mitch having gone off to find his own dancing partner), Louise jitterbugged with one soldier after another to songs like “Chattanooga Choo-Choo,” “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy,” and “Alexander’s Ragtime Band.” She was a really good dancer, never missing a beat as her partners swung her out, twirled her around and back into a near-embrace, even dipped occasionally, so low her long hair brushed the floor. Once he even saw her garter belt. The whole time, she smiled and chatted up the besotted guys who clearly lusted after her.
Like me.
She used her hands and her arms expressively as she danced. In fact, all parts of her body parts moved to the beat. Not in an overtly sexual way, but sensual. And graceful. Sensual grace. Hah! That was a new way of saying Hot Broad.
At one point, she noticed him staring at her, and their eyes connected. Even then, she didn’t trip or mess up her dance steps. But she was aware of him after that, he could tell.
Of course, it could be because he was wearing summer dress whites, a request of Beau’s bride for her formal wedding. His uniform stood out in this sea of khaki. Oh, there were Navy guys in white here, too, from the NAS, but they wore the typical sailor uniforms with Dixie Cup covers in their hands, or stuffed in back pockets. Mostly, the service men crowding this USO were Army from Camp Polk or Camp Beauregard, or guys home on leave from other posts. Not that Polk didn’t have its own USO up at DeRidder, but the rumors of sin to be had in New Orleans were a constant lure to horny soldiers, even in such innocent surroundings as these USOs where the hostesses were supposed to be “good girls.”
In the break between songs, Mitch came back, towing a pretty blonde in hand, and said, “We’re going out for a soda.” Code word for necking…or something more. “You gonna make your move or what?”
Yeah, he probably was. This attraction was too strong to be ignored.
And that was saying a lot because, up to now, Phillipe would have walked away from this kind of temptation. No excessive drinking when on liberty, like some of his Navy buddies were inclined to indulge (there was a lot to forget about with that war in Europe calling their names). No gambling (who could afford to lose even a tenner when half his paycheck was sent home to his parents?). No cigarettes (ever liked the taste, and expensive). No brothels (that money issue, again, plus the risk of diseases, as graphically explained to every first-year plebe or swabbie. Can anyone say Cupid’s Itch?). And definitely no serious relationships with women (he’d never had a steady girlfriend—ever—which was probably why he’d had no real interest in Louise back then).
If that made him a cold fish, or a knucklehead, so be it! Phillipe was determined to rise above the poverty of his bayou upbringing and become “somebody.” Hopefully, a physician, God willing and the war not lasting too long.
With nothing going for him other than a brighter than usual brain, he’d been pounded around quite a bit. Four years as a midshipman at the Naval Academy in Maryland (which was Yankee land to this Southern boy, no matter what anyone said about some friggin’ Mason-Dixon line), four summer cruises on the USS Yorktown (where he got mocked for his “redneck” drawl and learned to give as good as he got), and two years of medical school before he made lieutenant junior grade bars on re-entry to active duty.
And he’d done damn well so far. But he was a long way from his ultimate goal, and that would require single-minded dedication. His life at the moment had no room for a woman, other than a quick raking of the coals here and there, and definitely not this tempting bit of bayou fluf
f, who could easily drag him back to his Cajun roots.
Still, Louise was a sight to behold. A sexy little thing, no more than five-two or five-three, before donning those lay-me-down red high heels with straps that tied into bows at her trim ankles. He would be dreaming about those shoes tonight, for sure.
Bet I could untie those knots with my teeth.
Small she might be, but perfectly proportioned. Oh, man, was she built! Breasts which were small but appeared large, because of her petite frame. A tiny waist tapering out to curvy hips and what appeared to be a…please, God!...heart-shaped ass. A pint-sized Betty Grable.
She wore a short-sleeved, knee-length, red-belted, white dress of some clingy material that hugged her upper body and hips, then swirled out as she danced. Caramel-colored Cajun eyes expressed her every emotion, mostly flirty laughter, and dark hair hanging down to her shoulders in waves whipped this way and that as she danced.
Like a butterfly she was, mesmerizing to all those who watched her with fascination. Colorful. Carefree. Daring the observer to catch her if they could.
Enough!
As the music changed suddenly to a much slower, “As Time Goes By,” he forged forward, making a path through the crowd. Without asking, he held out a hand to her, ignoring the Army grunt who’d expected to be her partner.
Louise tilted her head to the side at his nerve, but stepped into his arms. He was only five-ten, and her high heels brought her up to just the right height. With her left hand on his shoulder and her right hand in his, there was still ample space between them. To him, it felt like the most intimate embrace.
“Louise,” he said as they swayed together. That’s all. Just her name. In a husky fool voice. Smoldering, that’s how his fellow midshipmen at the Academy used to describe a certain voice, or look, and practice it in front of a mirror, himself included. Looking for charm in all the wrong places. Total drips, that’s what they’d been. Apparently, he still was.
She arched her brows. “Phillipe Prudhomme, I do declare. I thought you had become a Yankee and abandoned us poor Southern gals for some snooty Yankee dame.”
“Darlin’, there’s nothin’ up north to compare with a Southern belle, especially a Cajun one,” he drawled. Yep, drip, drip, drip. First I smolder, then I drawl. Next, I’ll be drooling. And, jeesh! I thought I lost my Southern accent. “With all the service men crowdin’ you, I’m surprised you even recognized me.”
She grinned at his teasing. “Darlin’,” she said, copying him, “I’ve known you since ya wrestled a gator on Bayou Black and claimed ta be Tarzan, king of the bayou jungle. How could I ever forget you?”
“I was twelve years old, and it was a baby gator.” He laughed. “And how could I ever forget the barefoot Cajun girl with a sunburnt nose whose claim to fame was that she could catch crawfish by dipping her big toe in bayou mud and letting the critters hang on?”
She blushed at that memory, but then she added with a saucy wink, “I still can, but those mudbug claws ruin mah toenail polish.”
“Comment ca va, chère?” he asked, reverting to Cajun French, asking how she was doing.
She shrugged. “Comme ci, comme ca, cher.” So-so.
He loved this banter with its Cajun undertones. It felt kind of like coming home.
“What are you doin’ here in Nawleans? I thought you were up north, studyin’ ta be a doctor or somethin’.”
“I was. I am. I mean, I started my studies at the Naval Academy, and was lucky enough to be able to postpone my military commitment after graduation until after I complete medical school. I got in two years, but then the war interrupted and I’m back on active.” He shrugged after his overlong explanation. All she’d probably wanted was a simple “I am.”
She nodded, though, as if understanding. Lots of people’s plans had been put on hold by the damn war. “So, you’re not actually a doctor yet?”
“Mais non. Far from it.”
“And you’re back here…why?”
“I’m on liberty for two weeks, and was in my buddy’s wedding down the street tonight. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be wearing this ice-cream-man outfit,” he said, waving a hand in front of himself to explain his more formal attire.
“You look good in that uniform, Phillipe. Trés handsome!”
He’d been feeling foolish up to now, overdressed, like he stood out, and not in a good way. Her compliment made him feel good until she added, “Tsk, tsk! You men and your uniforms! It’s not fair to us poor females who are dazzled by all that handsomeness.” She fanned her face with a hand and blew out a little breath, as if overheated.
He grinned and shook his head with wonder. Females didn’t react to him that way. Not ones as attractive as Louise. His eyes swept over her again, taking in her amazing appearance. “You…are…a…doll,” he murmured, before he had a chance to bite his tongue.
“And that surprises you?”
“Actually, it does. How come I never noticed you before…that way?”
“The wrong time,” she conjectured.
She was probably right. “So, what are you doing here, Miss Louise Marie Rivard of crawdad-catching fame? Nawleans is a long way from Bayou Black.” Well, it was less than an hour away, by car, but Cajun girls usually stuck close to home. Or they used to.
“I work here. At Higgins Industries.”
“Where they build the Liberty Ships?”
She nodded.
“You work on the line?” Lots of women, even ones who’d never worked before, were filling the assembly lines of factories these days while their men went off to war.
She shook her head. “I’m a typist. Been there for two years, since I graduated from high school.”
“I always thought you’d become a traiteur, like your mother and grandmother.”
“I would have. I might still one day. Folk healin’ is passed on through some females in my family, but the money here in the city is too good ta pass up.”
He would bet she sent money home, like he did. Cajuns were hard-working people, but most of them were poor, struggling to support large families on blue-collar salaries. “Yeah, the war changes everything.”
They were carrying on this conversation as they slow-danced, but it was hard to hear with the loud music and the conversations and laughter around them.
“I hafta leave soon,” she told him during a pause in the music, “if I wanna catch the last streetcar home.”
“A streetcar? I assumed that you lived at home on the bayou and traveled into the city.”
“It’s too hard to travel back and forth every day, even if I was able to get the gas rations. I share a cottage on Rampart Street with three other girls.”
“The old plaçage district?” he asked with a grin. Years ago, back in the 1700s and 1800s, white, upper-class Louisiana men had maintained their quadroon mistresses in a recognized legal system called plaçage. In New Orleans, Rampart Street became known for its placée cottages, easily identifiable by their vivid colors.
“Yes, but it’s quite respectable t’day. Well, maybe a little shady,” she admitted, and grinned. Obviously, there was still some wild in this bayou girl, who liked pushing the edge.
That settled it. “I’ll drive you home.” But then he thought of something. “You going steady with anyone, chère?”
“A little late for askin’ that, isn’t it?” she asked. “No, I’m not seein’ anyone reg’lar.”
He squeezed her hand, the message being, Until now. Everything was happening fast and hard, but for once in his life, he couldn’t care.
Without further words, he led her off the dance floor. Along the way, he told Mitch he’d see him back at the hotel room they shared, where the wedding reception had been held. After tonight, Phillipe would be staying at his parent’s home or over at the NSA officer quarters, and Mitch would be headed north to his home, where he had a fiancée waiting for him.
Phillipe laced his fingers with hers as they walked, and for a while neither of them spoke. He was ove
rwhelmed with the emotions that washed over him, filling him.
And they hadn’t even kissed yet.
She laughed when she saw his car…a fifteen-year-old Triumph roadster that had seen better days even when he’d bought it as an abandoned wreck when he was sixteen years old. “You’re still drivin’ this rust bucket?”
“Hey, be careful you don’t insult Belle. She gets me where I want to go.”
“You call your car Belle? What is it about men and the female names they give their precious cars?”
And precious body parts, too, truth to tell. Names, that is. Not female names. “She’s pretty, and temperamental, but when her motor is running, she—”
“Enough! I get the picture.” Louise laughed again.
He loved the sound of her laughter. In these uncertain times, any laughter was a lift to a soldier’s spirits, but her laugh…it was something else. Light. Flirty. Teasing. Like Louise herself.
Phillipe pulled up in front of the rundown yellow cottage with blue shutters. This street was just outside the red light district, but like Louise had said, respectable. Though barely. Her daddy would have a fit if he knew where she was living.
He didn’t bother to ask if he could come in, figuring her roommates would be around; all the lights were lit in the cottage windows. So, they sat in his car and talked, and talked. Not about the war, what action he’d seen, how long the war would last, about the good news coming out that day of an American victory in Guadalcanal, or the increasingly horrendous news seeping out of Germany about what the Nazis were doing to the Jews in concentration camps. Instead, he told her about his plans for the future…both immediate in S & R and long-term in medicine.
“Wouldn’t a medic be more in line with your career plans?” she asked.
