by Sandra Hill
The kitchen, in fact the whole house, held ambiance. Lance laughed to himself, that he would even know such a word. Hell, it’s what his decorator had said when designing his home in Houston, and it was cold as steel compared to this. Brenda would love this.
That thought brought him to the point of this visit. But before he could speak, Tante Lulu placed a bowl of gumbo, several slices of warm bread and butter, and a mug of coffee in front of him, with the words, “Bon appetit!” Then said, out of the blue, “Do you know Richard Simmons?”
“Ummm, this is good,” he said, taking his first bite of the thick, Cajun, stew-like dish. “Do you mean Richard Simmons, the exercise nut?”
Tante Lulu inhaled sharply and slapped him on the shoulder with a dish towel. “Shame on you. Richard ain’t a nut. He’s a hunk. If I was younger, I’d go after him, guaranteed.”
“Okaaaay.” Someone’s nuts around here, but I don’t know if it’s me, Richard Simmons, or this Cajun fruitcake here. But he was raised to be polite. “You’re not that old.”
Tante Lulu laughed. “Sweetie, I’m so old I coulda been a waitress at the Last Supper. Not that I don’t still have some snap in my garters.”
No way was he going to step in that minefield. “This is really good.” He hadn’t realized he was so hungry and didn’t even protest when Tante Lulu refilled his bowl without asking.
“You sure are good lookin’, boy. Purtier than a speckled pup. Betcha the wimmen chase ya lak crazy. Betcha think yer hotter ’n a pig’s butt in a pepper patch.”
“I do not think I’m hotter than . . . what you said.”
“Well, dontcha be havin’ a hissy fit. There ain’t that many men as hot as Richard.”
“Richard Petty?”
“No, aintcha been listenin’? Richard Simmons. Mebbe ya know someone who knows him and ya kin invite Richard to the Lance Caslow and the Cajun Bad Boys show?”
Lance sputtered into his coffee. “Huh?”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “I’m a traiteur . . . a healer . . . but that doan mean I have special afro-diss-aks in my pocket. Ya weren’t thinkin’ I had a magic bullet here for ya, were ya? Iffen thass the case, ya might as well skedaddle on home. Even juju tea takes a while ta work.”
“They make tea from Jujyfruits candy?”
“Boy, yer thicker ’n a bayou stump. But dontcha be worryin’ none. We’s fixin’ ta get yer wife back fer ya, lickedy split. Brenda won’t even know the thunderbolt hit her.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Let’s backtrack about a NASCAR mile here, sweetheart.”
“Oooh, thass a good touch, that sweetheart thang. Betcha the wimmen swoon over that.”
Yeah, but not Brenda. “What show?”
“I already tol’ ya. The Cajun Bad Boys.”
“I’m not Cajun.”
She waved a hand dismissively. “We’ll make ya an honorary Cajun.”
“We who?”
Within seconds, he found out who as Tante Lulu’s four nephews, and the niece Charmaine, showed up in ten and fifteen minute intervals.
“Hey, Lance.” It was John LeDeux greeting him as he strolled in carrying a mondo size bag of cheese doodles, the size you buy in surplus warehouses. John, better known as Tee-John to his family, had been a member of the Jinx treasure hunting crew but was now a cop in Fontaine, Louisiana. “Guess my aunt roped you in, too.” He grinned as if Lance was the sucker of the month, which he probably was.
“Didja bring Lance’s hope chest?”
“Oh, yeah!” He pointed to a pine box out on the porch.
“A . . . a hope chest? For me?”
“Oui. I gives ’em ta all the men before I fixes up their love life. Ya want the ‘L & B’ embroidery on the pillow cases ta be in green or blue?”
“Wait till you see the pot holders she made you out of NASCAR flags,” John told him, not even trying to suppress a chuckle. “And the bride quilt with checkered flags alternating with hearts. And a monogrammed toilet paper holder. And the St. Jude flag to put on your race car.”
Now that last he wouldn’t mind. A racer needed all the help he could get.
“Doan pay no nevermind ta Tee-John. He’ll be gettin’ his hope chest sometime soon.”
“No, no, no!” John was turning a lovely shade of gray that gave Lance immense pleasure.
“How’s the police work going?” he asked.
John shrugged. “Beats pickin’ cotton, or . . .” He cast his aunt a mischievous grin, “ . . . or strippin’.”
The old lady smacked her nephew, whom she clearly adored, on his arm. “Doan mind Tee-John,” she told Lance. “This one, bless his heart, thinks the sun comes up ta hear him crow.”
“Doesn’t it?” the young man asked with mock innocence.
The niece Charmaine came next, carrying outdoor Christmas decorations that they were all apparently going to help the old lady put up. Charmaine looked like a Christmas ornament herself, with huge teased black hair, earrings that dangled a bunch of colored bells, red spandex pants, white high heeled cowboy boots, a green silk, long-sleeved t-shirt with the words “Don’t Tangle With me”, and in smaller print “Charmaine’s Beauty Spa.” She was what his friend Easy would call a Hootchie Mama and mean it as a compliment. His daughter Patti, a real girly girl, would love Charmaine.
Luc and Remy LeDeux came next, also carting Christmas decorations and a bushel of okra. What anyone would do with a bushel of okra, he had no idea. Luc was the oldest of the LeDeux brothers, a lawyer. Remy, badly scarred in Desert Storm, was a pilot.
After they shook hands with him and asked a few questions about his latest race—people in the South loved NASCAR—they all sat down at the table. Tante Lulu placed mugs of coffee in front of all of them, along with a platter of fresh-baked beignets, a Louisiana delicacy.
Lance was feeling a mite embarrassed . . . okay, a lot embarrassed. When he’d called Tante Lulu to ask for her help, he didn’t know she would be calling in the troops to share his secret shame. Lance Caslow, celebrity playboy, couldn’t get his wife back on his own.
“Tell us what the problem is, Lance, and we’ll see what we can do to help,” Charmaine advised. “And don’t be blushin’. We’ve all been in the same boat.”
I doubt that. Taking a deep breath, he began. “I have loved Brenda forever. We grew up together. We married right after high school. We have a little girl together. I thought we would be together always.”
“I hear a great big but in there,” Remy said.
“I screwed up.”
Charmaine and Tante Lulu both glowered at him.
“I didn’t cheat on her,” he protested.
The two women arched their eyebrows.
“I didn’t cheat on her while we were together.”
The men laughed.
“Listen, my friend, I’m a lawyer,” Luc said, “but you don’t need to be a lawyer to know that terminology doesn’t give you the wiggle room you think it does.”
“Yeah, I know. That’s what Brenda said. I’m about ready to give up. This is my last shot. Really, it feels hopeless.”
“What a load of hooey!” Tante Lulu said. “But ya came ta the right place fer hopeless cases.” She squeezed his shoulder and passed him another beignet. “When didja first start havin’ troubles and when did ya get a divorce?” Tante Lulu wanted to know.
“There was trouble almost from the get-go . . . or once I started winning some races. The groupies, the parties, the drinking. But as long as Brenda was with me, we were okay. She was a NASCAR mechanic for my team. But then we had Patti . . . our little girl is seven now . . . and Brenda couldn’t go on the road as much. I guess I let all the attention go to my head. I didn’t actually do anything, but—”
“Sonny, let’s get one thing straight. A man, he can be slicker ’n deer guts on a doorknob, but excuses doan make the gumbo boil. Cheatin’ is cheatin’, whether it be lookin’, or kissin’, or rentin’ a room at the Hidey Hole Hotel. As Doctor Phil would say, ya gotta own the probl
em.”
Lance’s jaw dropped at Tante Lulu’s little sermon. The rest of them just grinned, probably having heard that sermon a few dozen times.
“I admit, I made mistakes. Big mistakes. Number one, I let myself be photographed with hot women in compromising positions. Number two, I didn’t go home immediately and beg Brenda to forgive me. Instead, I said she was overly jealous. Number three, when we were separated, I got drunk and had a one-night stand with a groupie who sold the story to the National Enquirer. Number four, I let my pride rule way too long. Now Brenda won’t even talk to me.”
“Tsk, tsk, tsk!” Tante Lulu said.
“Here I thought you were gonna say that yer problem was yer needle dick,” John teased.
“Tee-John LeDeux! You got a mouth like a Bourbon Street pimp. I kin still whomp yer fanny,” Tante Lulu scolded. “And it ain’t polite to make fun of a man’s doo-doo.”
John just winked at his aunt.
“That’s okay. Brenda told that needle dick story about my . . . uh, doo-doo . . . for a long time, to get back at me,” Lance explained.
“Did it work?” Remy asked.
“Hell, yes. Try explaining to people that you don’t have a needle dick without dropping your drawers.”
“Men and the size of their you-know-whats!” Charmaine said to Tante Lulu. “If they’d stop worrying about size and stop thinking with their zippers, women would be all over them like white gravy on a warm biscuit.”
“The big question is: does Brenda still love you?” The old lady might act a bit ditzy, but she knew how to get at the heart of things.
“Yes,” he said without hesitation. “She just doesn’t like me very much.”
Two hours later—hope chest stowed in his back seat, St. Jude statue in his pocket, and a Tupperware container of gumbo in the trunk—Lance left, shaking his head with dismay. He’d just agreed to the most outlandish plan to get Brenda back.
The NASCAR Bad Boy had officially become a Cajun Bad Boy.
And then he threw out the hook . . .
Brenda studied the card that had come in the mail today, addressed to Brenda and Patti Caslow. It was a formal invitation on heavy cream parchment with a holly border.
You are cordially invited to
A CAJUN CHRISTMAS DINNER REVUE
at
The Southern Louisiana Civic Center
honoring
NASCAR DRIVER LANCE CASLOW
Entertainment by The Cajun Bad Boys
Proceeds to benefit Our Lady of the Bayou Homeless Shelter
RSVP: Louise Rivard, [email protected]
“Louise Rivard,” she murmured. “That’s Tante Lulu. What would Lance have to do with Tante Lulu?”
Her ex-husband was involved in lots of charity events, lending his name to good causes. She was about to pitch this one in the circular file when Patti came into the room. She was all dolled up for a slumber party to be held at her friend Carolyn’s tonight.
Good Lord! Are those fishnet stockings she has on under that very short skirt? No, just tights made to look like fishnet. Whew! Patti had long blonde hair, the curls tamed into a series of beaded braids framing her face. Dangly Santa earrings hung from her pierced ears. She had rings on almost all her fingers. On top she wore a black glittery shirt with sequined letters saying, “NASCAR Babe,” an ill-thought-out gift for a seven-year-old girl from her Daddy. She had her own unique style, you had to give her that.
“Is that the invitation? Yippee!” Patti squealed, taking the card out of Brenda’s hand and dancing around their small kitchen. “Can we go, Mommy? Please. This is a special honor for Daddy, and we hardly ever go to things for Daddy. Please, please, please.”
“Oh, I don’t know, honey. It’s in Louisiana, and—”
“Dad would send us plane tickets.”
“And it’s a school night.”
Patti put both hands on her tiny hips. “It’s the Saturday before Christmas, Mom. Does Christmas vacation ring a bell?”
“Don’t be smart with me, young lady.”
“Sorry.” The kid had tears in her eyes, whether for fear that her mother would say no, or the harsh tone, she wasn’t sure. “But I wanna be there for Dad. Maybe I could go myself.” Her bottom lip quivered, like it always did when she was being brave, but scared silly.
“I am not putting you on a plane by yourself.”
Patti looked both relieved and upset.
“How come you know so much about this event? Has your Dad been prompting you to beg me to go?”
“Actually, no. Dad never mentioned it. Probably because you always say no anyhow, no matter what it is, if it involves him.”
Am I really that unbending?
“It was Tante Lulu who tol’ me ’bout it.”
“Huh? Since when do you know Tante Lulu?”
“I met her at the wedding, Mom. Geesh! Dontcha remember?”
“Of course I remember, but I’m surprised that you do.” On the other hand, the Cajun lady would be hard to forget.
“She called here one day when you were working down at the Jinx office.”
“And you forgot to tell me?”
“I figured you’d say no anyhow. Like you always do.”
“That is not true.”
“They were scheduling the event and wanted to pick a time when I would be able to attend. See, it’s important that I go.”
“I would only have a week to diet myself into my Christmas dress,” she mused aloud.
“You could buy a new one, in a bigger size.”
“Bite your tongue, girl. Wonder if I should try the grapefruit or the sauerkraut diet this time.”
It was an indication of how badly Patti wanted to attend that she didn’t even groan over the diet fare. “Can I go?” she asked in a small voice.
“Well, if you go, I go.”
Brenda was pretty sure she saw a crafty gleam of satisfaction in her daughter’s eyes. Had she just been manipulated, Lance Caslow style?
Chapter Three
Can NASCAR drivers shimmy? . . .
Lance was more nervous than he’d ever been at the Daytona when he waited for the loudspeaker to announce, “Gentlemen, start your engines.” The jitters never went away. But this was far worse.
“I am not taking my shirt off,” he told the LeDeux men backstage as they prepared for the upcoming Cajun Bad Boys show. “NASCAR drivers do not wear jackets without their shirts on. And I for sure am not wearing those tight stripper pants.”
“What, you think cops go around bare-chested as they nab bad guys?” John LeDeux wore the bottom half of a police uniform, cop hat on his head at a jaunty angle, and carried a billy club. Lance was one hundred per cent heterosexual, but he had to admit the rogue did look hot.
“And me, do you really think I go into court wearing a suit with no shirt underneath?” Luc LeDeux just grinned at him, looking rakishly handsome in a dark blue pin-striped Boss suit which exposed a black, hairy chest.
René, an environmentalist/teacher, wore only a vest and his frottoir, a washboard. He was a part-time musician, playing with the Swamp Rats, which was on stage right now. René was the instigator of these shows. He’s the one who encouraged them to do outrageous things, things Lance didn’t want to think about.
“Hey, at least they aren’t tryin’ ta get ya to dance around a fireman’s pole,” Remy added. He was wearing a bombers jacket, minus a shirt.
“You danced around a fireman’s pole?”
“Hell, no, but they tried. Instead I wore dress whites like a freakin’ Richard Gere from ‘An Officer and a Gentleman.”
“Holy crap!” he said.
“Actually, they brought out the fireman’s pole for an earlier Cajun Bad Boys event. Was it when Sylvie wouldn’t talk ta you, Luc?”
“Yep,” Luc replied with absolutely no embarrassment.
The two brothers grinned at each other.
“The best thing is that after a performance our women are all turned on,” Remy told La
nce. “Ain’t that right, Luc? There’ll be hot times on the bayou tonight.”
“Oh, that is just great. Why don’tcha brag when there are single fellas like me around?” This was John speaking.
