by Sandra Hill
Simone also signed on a young man from Lafayette, Gabriel Storm, which sounded like a stage name, but was not. Gabe had aspirations to become an actor and thought he could play the role of a “gigolo on the prowl.” On the surface, that sounded stupid. But he was nice-looking and could be trained to follow certain scripts. His was a provisional hire, he would have to be evaluated after a trial period.
Simone intended to do “fieldwork” herself, as well. At least in the beginning. Of course, she would have to be selective in the birds she hoped to trap because she was rather well-known in some quarters. She’d be scaring off the prey before she even started if she walked into some bars or establishments where men went to meet women.
Her mother came in then, wearing another of her Spanx-requisite dresses, but with flat heeled shoes. Adelaide Daigle, name clearly spelled out on the brass plate her mother had made for her desk, had stepped into her receptionist role yesterday and had been performing satisfactorily so far. But Simone was only speaking to her when absolutely necessary, the bone of contention being Cletus Bergeron, whom her mother had sleeping on the trailer sofa these past two nights, which had prompted Simone to move, without preparation, into the Legal Belles’ upstairs apartment where she was currently using a fold-out cot lent to her by Helene’s parents. Scarlett was still back at the trailer until Simone could make the apartment cat-proof. “Did you see this?” her mother asked, shoving a copy of the local newspaper onto her desk.
It was an article about a Terrebonne Parish trial involving Cypress Oil and the LeDeux & Lanier law firm. The headline of the story was “The Swamp Solicitor and the Bayou Barrister Create Courtroom Stink.” The photograph accompanying the article showed Luc pushing a hospital gurney with three dead gators and Adam in the background, looking all hot and professionally lawyerish but with a sinful Cajun grin on his face.
Even looking at the photograph, Simone felt the gooeys coming on.
“Why are you showing me this?” she snapped at her mother.
“So you’d see what a mistake that Lanier fellow would be fer you, honey.”
“I was never involved with that Lanier fellow. And don’t think for one minute, mother, that this article or Adam being involved in some dumb lawyer tricks will make me any more willing to take Cletus back. He is my ex. He will always be my ex. And if he shows up here one more time, even to visit you, I’m going to call the police and have him arrested for harassment.”
“But—”
“No buts.”
“He has a job interview today,” her mother told her, anyway. “He’s gonna work at the Gator Packing Plant. Butcherin’ dead gators fer the restaurant trade.”
“I don’t care if he’s wrestling alligators.” Simone stood and tidied the files on her desk. She had three more interviews scheduled for later this afternoon.
“You goin’ somewhere?”
“Yes. I’m having lunch with Jack Landry. Then I’m off to Home Warehouse to buy some furniture, which I cannot afford and which I hadn’t planned on buying until after Legal Belles was bringing in some cash.”
Her mother’s artfully rouged face bloomed with even more color. (She was getting lessons from Charmaine on “make-up for the professional woman.”)
“What happened ta yer furniture in Chee-cah-go?”
“It’s in storage. I don’t have time to go back for it right now.”
“I never meant fer you ta move out like that.”
“I had no choice.” She held up a halting hand when her mother was about to argue.
“Jist one thing,” her mother said. “You’re not plannin’ on moving’ back ta Chee-cah-go, are ya?”
Simone frowned. “Why would you think that?”
“You’re havin’ lunch with that architect fellow, ain’tcha?”
“That’s just to say good-bye. For good.”
“Did you hafta dress all sexy-like ta say good-bye?”
Simone glanced down. She had taken special care with her appearance. A sheer red blouse over a black bra, giving a wispy glimpse of bare abdomen, and a knee-length, black pencil skirt. Mid-heeled black slingback sandals. A red-filigreed headband held her dark hair off her face and cascading down over her shoulders, making her look younger than her almost thirty years.
There was something about looking good that was important to a girl when giving the old heave-ho to the male ho. Sort of a figurative middle finger in the air.
She’d just parked her car in the lot beside Chez Pierre’s and stood outside tugging down the hem of her skirt when she noticed Adam Lanier approaching. He must have been leaving the restaurant.
“Simone,” he said, coming closer.
She didn’t move, little alarm bells going off, not just in her head, but all over her suddenly sensitized body. Gooey alert! Should I pretend I don’t see him? Should I jump back in the car and drive off? Should I giggle and act all girly and excited to see him? Should I wave a white flag (tissue) of surrender and just jump his pretty bones?
It was a lost cause in the end.
Adam Lanier looked like a cool drink on a hot day, wearing a mint-green shirt with a beige tie and a light tan summer suit. Put a sprig of mint in his teeth, and he’d be a julep. This must be a work day for him, as evidenced by the suit. If he was in court, the female jurors would be salivating.
And, bless his conniving Cajun heart, the way he said her name was all soft and husky. Like he was saying “Simone,” but he was thinking “S. E. X.” It meant nothing, of course. It was an art form Cajun males learned at their father’s knees. How to charm the opposite sex into doing whatever they wanted.
And, boy, was she thinking about all those whatevers. Darn her Cajun-loving soul!
Just as she was giving him the eye-candy once-over, he was appraising her, too. His dark chocolate eyes traveled down her body, then started up again, slooooowly, beginning with the Cover Girl “Red-dy and Willing” enamel on the nails of her toes, which were incidentally curling. Up, up, up her hose-less legs. If she hadn’t shaved this morning, the hairs would surely be standing on end. Over her flat belly, as if wondering if she had a navel piercing. She didn’t. But she might get one. Pausing over her sheer blouse, studying the bare abdomen, checking to see if anything important was showing at bra level. Then he licked his lips as his appreciative eyes latched on to her “Taboo-You” red lips, which had been parted, but snapped shut so fast that he grinned.
He wasn’t one bit apologetic about getting caught ogling, either. In fact, he drawled out, “You’re lookin’ good today, chère.”
“So are you, cher,” she countered with an equally slow drawl. She could out-Cajun him any day, despite the revving of her hormone engine. Even so, she backed up slightly, wanting—needing—to put some space between them. Unfortunately, she miscalculated and her butt hit the driver’s side door.
He moved in, shamelessly invading her personal space. With one arm braced against the roof of the car, he leaned forward and whispered against her ear, “Are you seeing anyone, darlin’?”
Low blow! The darlin’ card! “Seeing?” she asked dumbly.
“Dating? In a relationship? A man in your life?”
Nope. Only a cat. And a female one at that. She shook her head. “Why?”
“Because I don’t do sharing.”
Do? Does he mean “do” as in “do me”? Oh, he is outrageous. She should knee him in the nuts, as she very well knew how to do. Police Academy 101. But instead, she said, “I don’t share, either.”
He nodded, pleased with her response. “I’ve been attracted to you from the first moment we met.”
“I’m surprised that you would admit that. Kind of lessens your odds.”
“You’re assuming this is a game. I’m too old to play games. Actually, they never interested me much. How about you?”
“Oh, games can be fun sometimes.”
“Tease!” he said with a chuckle and nipped her on the chin with his teeth.
It wasn’t a kiss or a bite,
but she felt it all the way down to “Red-dy and Willing.”
She remembered her bad history with Cajun men and her resolution to avoid them in the future. “Um, I think it’s time to cut this flower in the bud. I am not going to do this again.”
“Do what, darlin’?”
That damn “darlin’” again! “Get involved with another Cajun man.”
“You’re going to give me the boot just because I’m Cajun?”
She nodded.
“Well, lucky you, babe, because I’m only half Cajun.”
She might have asked him which half—she was enjoying this banter—except that Jack showed up just then. “Hey, sweetheart, sorry I’m late,” Jack called out.
Simone’s face flushed as she introduced them. “Adam, this is Jack Landry. An acquaintance, from Chicago.”
She saw Adam’s eyebrow raise at the word acquaintance, especially when Jack made a scoffing noise and muttered something that sounded like “Acquaintance, my ass!”
She elbowed Jack and said, “Jack, this is Adam Lanier, a local lawyer whose firm helped with the business filings for Legal Belles.”
Jack tried to put an arm around her shoulder, sort of like a dog marking its territory. She made a snarling sound, which he chose to ignore.
Adam stepped back and looked from Jack to her, back to Jack, and then her again. The look of condemnation on his face told her loud and clear that he thought she’d lied, that she and Jack remained lovers. She could have corrected the impression. She wanted to correct that impression.
But then, she thought, Who are you to condemn me? The man with the size-zero yoga bimbo? The man who’d allegedly laid half of New Orleans’ women under thirty . . . according to Mom who heard it at the beauty parlor, so it must be true.
Just in time, she realized the gift she’d been handed. An escape from her own bad inclinations. A preemptive call on heartbreak. He mother would say she’d almost had her crazy on again . . . her Cajun Crazy.
That was a close call.
Chapter Five
Impure thoughts aren’t really impure if they’re in church, right? . . .
As he sat on a stool at the kitchen island, Adam read the Sunday papers and sipped at his second cup of coffee while his dad watered his vegetable garden out back. They were waiting for Maisie to get dressed (“I kin do it myself, Daddy. I’m not a baby, y’know.”) so they could go to noon Mass at Our Lady of the Bayou Church.
Adam wasn’t overly religious, but he had been raised Catholic, and it pleased his father to have them attend services together. It was a good tradition to follow for his daughter until she was old enough to decide on her own. Plus, Maisie loved the music, especially the handbell choir and truth to tell, he did, too. It provided serenity in a not-so-serene world.
The sweet smell of the blueberry pancakes and syrup that still lingered in the air made Adam set his newspaper aside and look around. There was something about Sunday mornings and reflection.
They lived in a nice four-bedroom house, about fifty years old but with a recently remodeled kitchen. Adam didn’t do much cooking, but his father, who fashioned himself a “half-assed gourmet” (his words for “Cajun with a twist”), loved this room with all its stainless steel and granite and the massive island that seated four stools. His grandmother’s oak kitchen table and chairs sat in a little alcove facing the side yard. And there was a separate formal dining room with Hannah’s antique Hepplewhite furniture, Meissen dinnerware for twenty, and sterling flatware, which they rarely used.
Hannah had enjoyed antiquing, when she wasn’t working as a psychologist or engaging in her extramarital social life, and thus had added to a family collection of hundred-year-old Newcomb Pottery from the famous New Orleans artisans. At her death, there were twenty-five pieces, some extremely rare and valuable. Only two of them—a lamp and a vase—were on view in the living room; the rest had been packed away for protection.
Maybe Maisie would appreciate some of these remembrances of her mother someday.
Adam had purchased the house just before his move here six months ago. It would have been nice to be on the bayou, but they had an in-ground pool out back, which more than made up for the lack of a running stream. And they didn’t have to worry about sharing the water with gators or snakes. The flagstone patio surrounding the pool, accessed from the sliding doors of the kitchen or living room, was particularly nice for relaxing or eating outside in the evenings. Thankfully, Maisie could swim like a fish, but even so, she knew the rules. No entering the pool unless accompanied by an adult.
His father’s vegetable garden was located beyond the pool and separated by a low hedge. In fact, his father came walking in now, carrying a basket containing a heaping pile of tomatoes of assorted sizes and colors, everything from yellow to almost black and various shades of red, which he knew to be heirloom varieties that his father was experimenting with this year. He’d gotten the seeds from Tante Lulu. Adam knew better than to ask his father what they were going to do with all those tomatoes. He knew that, aside from fresh slices salt-and-peppered on a plate or served on white bread sandwiches with mayo, the fruits/vegetables (whatever tomatoes were!) would end up in any number of his father’s “half-assed gourmet” recipes, including the traditional gumbos, jambalayas, étouffées, and a wonderful Cajun tomato gravy and eggs dish his dad made on special occasions. Of course, they couldn’t be a Southern house without fried green tomatoes. His mouth watered at the thought of the latter and he asked, “Any chance you could make fried green tomatoes for dinner?”
“Ab-so-lute-ly!” his father said. “With some shrimp remoulade. Yum!”
Maisie walked in then and exclaimed on seeing the tomatoes his father was arranging in a big bowl, “PawPaw, you dint wait fer me?”
“I figured you had enough to fill a basket from your own patch, princess. All those sugar snap peas! And I swear the radishes are big as golf balls.”
Maisie made to rush out and check, but Adam grabbed her by the neck of her dress and said, “Not now. After church. You know how PawPaw hates to be late.”
His father went to the sink to wash his hands while Adam checked out Maisie’s attire. Her black curls were unruly but were held off her face with a diamond (rhinestone) headband, and it looked like she had some kind of pink gloss on her lips, but her dress was surprisingly appropriate, considering his daughter’s usual taste. A pink-and-white-checked sundress with a bow in back, which he leaned down to tie. “You look real good, Maisie Daisie,” he said, kissing the top of her head.
“I know,” she said, “and I even got the day right.” She bent over and flipped the hem of the dress so he could see her day-of-the-week panties, another Uncle Dave gift. Yep, it was Sunday all right. “Make sure you don’t show anyone else, though.”
“But, Daaaaddy, that’s the fun of having good undies.”
“Who told you that?”
“I heard it on TV. It was a commercial for some secret store.”
It took Adam a few moments to realize that she meant Victoria’s Secret. He hadn’t realized they advertised on regular TV, and certainly not on a children’s channel.
“Food Network,” his father inserted, guessing at Adam’s question.
Adam arched his eyebrows in disbelief. His father was a food junkie, loved Chopped, and Iron Chef, and The Pioneer Woman, but lingerie ads on that channel seemed highly unlikely.
“They were doing some kind of celebrity charity cook-off. The Rockettes against the models,” his father explained, raising his chin in a “So sue me!” attitude.
Adam just laughed. Two single men raising a little girl . . . well, they were running the game without a playbook, with no woman around the house.
When they arrived at church, early enough to get his father’s favorite pew—on the aisle, five rows from the back—Adam noticed immediately that Simone LeDeux was sitting in front of them, beside a woman that must be her mother. The older woman was wearing an old-fashioned, upswept hairstyle—simil
ar to something Adam’s mother had favored. Funny he should remember his mother’s hairstyle from so long ago, especially since he’d been only seven when she died, and Dave had been four.
On Simone’s other side was the tall, lean fellow he’d seen outside Legal Belles a couple weeks ago, the day she’d been pulling off a two-man flirt-a-thon.
So, it wasn’t just the dude from Chicago she was seeing, but this man, who had a jailhouse pallor if he ever saw one. He recalled suddenly his Internet search after first meeting her and the mention of a first husband who was a convict. Cletus Something-or-other. Great taste in men, Ms. Super Cop, he thought. Not that he had room to talk with his one walk down the aisle with the Slut of the South. Oh, that was mean. Speaking . . . thinking . . . of my child’s mother that way. And what a subject for church!
It didn’t matter that Simone glared every time the guy tried to get her attention. Adam had seen enough to know she was not for him. He tried not to look anymore, which proved to be impossible.
Of course, he was also seeing enough of the world-class butt she displayed every time she rose or sat down in her pew, the fabric of her white linen slacks pulling taut. She had to be wearing no underwear at all, or a thong, because there was no panty line involved. Not that he was looking that closely. Or am I? he wondered when his father whispered in his ear, “I’m guessing flesh-colored thong.”
Jeesh! He was really bad off if he was starting to share sexual fantasies with his father. Maybe it was time to hook up with Sonia again before she left for West Coast yoga land. There had been a text on his phone this morning from her, inviting him to a party. Adam hadn’t called her back yet, but he wouldn’t be attending. Not because he wouldn’t enjoy seeing her again, and, hey, there was a lot to be said for Good-bye Sex, but it was the same day as the Dancing the Shrimp event their client Mike Pham was holding, and he’d promised to take Maisie.
He could invite Sonia to come with them instead, but, no, not gonna happen. It was probably silly of him to be so cautious, but Adam never introduced his female friends to his daughter.
