by Sandra Hill
No, accepted was the wrong word. He was royally pissed and not about to accept her stubbornness. He went into the house to get his Harley keys when the doorbell rang. Who would ring the bell when a party was going on? He stomped to the door, opened it, and just gawked, before bursting into a laugh. “Holy friggin’ hell! Look what the wind blew in!”
“I heard you were having a party.”
It was his brother, Dave, in full military gear, sporting enough stripes and medals and insignia to impress General Patton, if he were still around. He must have caught the attention of every female in every airport between Bagram and New Orleans.
Dave grinned as he dropped his duffel bag and yanked Adam into a huge bear hug. It was hard to tell who held on tighter. Although they didn’t talk about it, Adam and his father worried all the time about Dave, knowing he could be smack dab in the middle of any danger spot in the world. Sometimes they didn’t hear from him for months.
Can that be another reason why I’m such a stickler about danger?
Just then, there was a loud squeal followed by, “Uncle Dave, Uncle Dave!” Maisie flew across the room into Dave’s arms, and he swung her around. “How’s my Maisie Daisie doing? Didn’t you know I would come for your birthday?”
“My birthday’s not today.”
“Oh, so it’s a welcome home party for me.”
His father stepped up then, and if Adam were a weeping man, now would be the time to do it. His father just stared at Dave, and Dave just stared back for a long telling moment before they hugged, too.
If that weren’t enough drama, who should walk in then but Sonia, all hot red flaming hair, wearing a hot red bikini with a sheer cover-up and high-heeled wedge-type shoes that would do a hooker proud.
Dave’s eyes about bugged out.
But then Sonia’s did, too.
After the introductions, Dave prepared to follow Sonia and the others out to join the party. Before he stepped away, Dave asked, “Is she yours?”
Adam shook his head.
“Happy birthday to me,” Dave said then with a wink.
Adam picked up his bike keys again and almost made it out the door before he was accosted by this apparition that had to be either Betsy Ross or Martha Washington or a little person in an old-fashioned flag gown with a bathing mobcap. It was Tante Lulu, of course.
“Boy, yer gettin’ on mah last nerve,” she said right off.
“Why? What did I do?”
She tossed her arms in the air with disgust. “Thass the problem. Ya haven’t done nothin’.” Under her breath, she added, “If brains were dynamite, he wouldn’t have enough ta blow his nose. Lawyers!”
He didn’t need to ask what she meant. “I’m going to get her now.”
“And what’re ya gonna do that’s any different than the nothin’ ya been doin’ so far?”
Really, this busybody went too far some times. “This is between me and Simone.”
“Oh? How’s that workin’ for ya?”
He clenched his fists. “What would you suggest, exactly?”
“It all depends on yer intentions.”
“Oh, good Lord! This isn’t the fifties. There are other things besides marriage.”
“Not here in the bayou. Not if yer wantin’ St. Jude’s help.”
He rolled his eyes.
“This ain’t Cal-a-forny, and you ain’t no hippie dippie free love kinda guy.”
He sighed, wondering if he could leapfrog over her and escape. “Simone isn’t any more interested in marriage than I am.”
“Then, how come yer both so miserable?”
“She’s miserable?” he asked and couldn’t help but smile with a glimmer of hope.
“Let me ask ya one thing. Do ya love that gal?”
“Yes,” he said, and was surprised that he hadn’t even hesitated.
“And what did she say when ya tol’ her that?”
“Um.”
The old lady made a clucking sound of disgust and shoved him aside as she went out the front door, which was still open.
“Where are you going?” She was so old she might have got her directions wrong, and thought the pool was that way.
“Outside ta pray ta yer St. Jude statue I brought for yer front yard. You need all the help you can get.”
He used a little Cajun persuasion . . .
“Whoo-ee, baby! You could wave that flag over my bed anytime,” BaRa said, staring out the plate glass window of the temporary Legal Belles agency.
“What?” Simone asked, glancing up from the file on her desk.
BaRa had come in to help her this morning but was about to go off to a July Fourth family barbecue with her twin sons.
Then Simone noticed the target of BaRa’s appreciation.
It was Adam wearing a pair of flashy flag bathing trunks with a white tank top and flip flogs. He had driven in on his motorcycle and he gave the engine an extra rev, as if in anger, or to get her attention.
Honestly, the man never gave up.
And, honestly, a small part of her was thankful for that.
“Hi, Adam,” BaRa said as she passed him by.
Adam nodded at her, but as BaRa went out and he walked in, he only had eyes for Simone.
“Lock up shop. You’re coming to the party.”
“No, I’m not. I already told you—”
“Here’s the deal, darlin’. And, yes, I said darlin’. Live with it. Tante Lulu and her LeDeux gang have been making rumbling noises all day about some kind of half-assed Cajun Village People patriotic act where they do this sexy dance routine to woo a woman, or man. Sort of like Magic Mike on the bayou.”
“I’ve seen their dance revue. It’s outrageous, and totally embarrassing to the person they’re targeting.” She paused and felt her face heat up. “Me? They wouldn’t!”
“They would. Imagine Abe Lincoln, George Washington, Lady Liberty, Betsy Ross, whom I’m pretty sure is Tante Lulu, Uncle Sam, Ben Franklin, a Star-Spangled Rockette, Yankee Doodle, Captain America, and a whole slew of military men and women strutting their stuff and taking it all off. All for the sake of true love.”
Her jaw dropped. “You’re making that up.”
“I wish!”
“What would you be in this musical menagerie?”
“I have no idea, but my brother, Dave, just got home. I wouldn’t be surprised if they commandeer his captain’s uniform.”
“Well, good luck with all that. I’m sorry you’re having to deal with this, but . . .” She shrugged. It wasn’t her problem.
“Have I mentioned that if I don’t bring you back, they’ll probably all come here to serenade you out in the parking lot? There’ll be an even bigger audience. The news media will show up. Great publicity for Legal Belles, though, I suppose.” He batted his eyelashes at her.
She wasn’t sure if he was serious or not.
But she wasn’t taking any chances.
“Do you promise that there won’t be any serenading crap if I go back there?”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Just for an hour, and then I’m outta there.”
“Sure.”
Had she just been conned or what?
She knew that she’d been conned when he put her behind him on the Harley with her legs spread and her knees raised, hugging his hips. Then he proceeded to take every rough, vibrating road in Terrebonne Parish. She had to grab him around the waist to keep from falling off. By the time they got to his house, her lady parts had been jiggled to attention.
She hit him when she got off the bike, especially when he grinned at her, knowing what he’d done, and took her hand. That’s when she heard, coming from the back of the house, reverberating around the neighborhood, the Swamp Rats belting out “Louisiana Man.”
Yep, she thought. My theme song. Except that teenager-ish Britney Spears song “Oops! . . . I Did It Again” would be an even more appropriate signature line for her. And Simone was no teenager.
Still, it was a fact: H
er Cajun Crazy was in full-tilt boogie mode.
Love is a Cajun kind of thing . . .
Adam was happy . . . happier than he’d been for a long, long time. It was the warm, heart-expanding kind of joy seeping out from within, radiating outward, that rarely comes in anyone’s lifetime. A time to be cherished, and protected so that it would last, which it couldn’t possibly do, being like a bubble or a wisp of dandelion fluff on the wind.
Corny, I know.
Now would be a good time for some reunion sex, if he could find a bedroom, or even a closet, where he could be alone with Simone. Hmm. That sounds like a song title, “Alone with Simone.” He grinned, not at all alarmed at his loopiness, not even when Simone elbowed him and hissed, “Stop smirking,” while trying to tug her hand free.
“I’m not smirking,” he said, refusing to release her hand. He wasn’t letting her out of his sight today, not till they resolved their differences, or had reunion sex, or both. Meanwhile, he pretended to leer at her body in the spare bathing suit she’d borrowed from Charmaine. It was white, one-piece, and fit like a glove, low between the breasts, high on the sides. He couldn’t wait to see it wet. “And stop trying to get away from me. The only way I’m releasing you today is if you let me watch your ass while you walk away. In fact, can I take a video with my cell phone? Up, down, up, down.”
She stopped tugging.
He knew she was sensitive about her butt, with no cause. She was built like what his dad used to call “a brick shithouse.” Not that he would mention that to her.
“Behave yourself. People are staring at us,” she said.
He yanked her closer and kissed her shoulder, which was sun-baked and silky smooth and smelled like coconut oil. “They are not. They’re having too much fun.” And they were. “It’s a great party, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” she admitted and relaxed beside him on the cushioned glider one of the neighbors had brought over to provide extra seating. He had plans for this glider, later.
There had to be at least seventy people of all ages, including a half dozen of Maisie’s friends, standing about talking, dancing, sitting, and swimming as the Swamp Rats played one traditional Cajun song after another. “Jolie Blon.” “Big Mamou.” “Jambalaya.” “Sugar Bee.” “Diggy Diggy Lo.” The band members all wore beachy kinds of shorts and T-shirts (including his favorite Bite Me Bayou Bait Company ones) and flip-flops, more in the line of Jimmy Buffett than Doug Kershaw, even René with the washboard-type instrument hanging over his shoulders onto his chest.
“Wanna dance?” he asked Simone.
“Not a chance. Not in my bare feet.”
“We could dance on the grass.”
“You would use dancing as an excuse to make out.”
He grinned.
“Stop grinning.”
He grinned some more.
She just shook her head at him.
“How about some food?”
“If I eat another bite, I’ll pop out of this suit.”
“I can hope!”
“You’re going to have enough leftovers to last a week.”
She was right. Extra tables had to be brought in to accommodate all the food under a rented tent, not just that which his dad had made or ordered, or that which Tante Lulu had carted in, but many of the guests brought food or wine, as well, for their party contributions.
He loved the sense of community here in the bayou. And family. The LeDeuxs had taken him in like an adopted son, under the wide wings of the Big Mama herself, Tante Lulu. Every one of the nephews and nieces were here with their spouses: Luc and Sylvie, Remy and Rachel, René and Valerie, John and Celine, Daniel and Samantha, and a dozen or more of their children, including baseball great Andy LeDeux. The only one missing was Aaron LeDeux, Daniel’s twin, who was out of town on some mysterious mission.
And family, of course, meant his brother, Dave, who was the primo guest of the day. With Sonia glued to his side, he regaled one and all with his war tales.
Maisie was in high heaven, flitting around like a butterfly in her star-spangled bathing suit. He’d never get her to sleep tonight.
John LeDeux walked over to them, a cell phone pressed to his ear, a longneck bottle of beer in the other hand. Clicking the phone off with his thumb, he put the device in the back pocket of his khaki cargo shorts, which rode low on his hips. He wore no shirt. “I’ve got news, folks,” he said, hunkering down in front of them.
Adam was immediately alert.
And so was Simone who asked, “What? Not another fire?”
“The arson at Legal Belles. No, not a new one. You’ll never guess who’s responsible.” He paused, setting his bottle aside, and told them, “Luther Ferguson.”
“What? He’s in jail,” Simone said.
“He ordered the fire from the inside. Friend of one of his cellmates did the deed.”
“We already knew that Ferguson had family money behind him,” Adam told Simone.
She nodded. “What will this mean for Ferguson?”
“His jail sentence will be extended. I doubt if he’ll get out before he’s seventy, if then.”
“Then the threat is over?” Simone asked.
“Sure is, sis,” John said, squeezing Simone’s knee.
John walked off to join his wife sitting on the edge of the pool, who could be heard warning her husband, “Don’t you dare, don’t you dare.” He did dare, picking her up and jumping with both of them into the pool, causing a huge splash. Adam hoped his cell phone was waterproof.
Simone turned to Adam, “That is such a relief, that we know the truth, anyway.”
He squeezed her shoulder and for just a moment she relaxed against him.
“You know I love you, don’t you, Simone?” he asked, suddenly. To his surprise, the words came easily.
She straightened, and turned slowly toward him. “No, I don’t know that, Adam.”
“Why do you think I’m acting so crazy?”
“Maybe Cajun Crazy is catching.”
“I love you,” he said.
She just stared at him.
“I love you.”
“Stop saying that.”
“I love you.”
She started to cry.
“Why are you crying?”
“Because I love you, too.”
“Of course you do, darlin’.”
And she melted, the way he’d hoped she would.
It was as simple, and complicated, as that. Men fought, women resisted. Or women fought, and men resisted. But love conquered all.
The only thing missing was . . . reunion sex.
Chapter Nineteen
And then there were fireworks . . .
It was a great party. Simone was glad that she’d come. Of course she was. The man she loved had told her that he loved her. That was a big, BIG deal.
Nothing had changed, though. They still had seemingly insurmountable barriers separating them, her job being the most glaring one, but they’d had no chance to be alone to discuss a resolution, if there could be one. She had to accept Adam’s assurance that they would work things out.
In the meantime, the band played a wonderful mix of modern rock and traditional Cajun music, the food was spectacular, and the conversation was stimulating and fun. It touched her heart to watch Adam in an Uncle Sam top hat and flag bathing trunks dance a slow jitterbug with his little girl, who was adorable in a star-spangled bathing suit and a lopsided Lady Liberty tiara.
His brother came up to the patio table where she was sitting. A few years younger than Adam but with a much bulkier frame—all military muscle—Dave was a good-looking man. Especially when she’d first seen him in his uniform, but still double-take-worthy now in drab green shorts and a U.S. Army T-shirt. His hair was short, shaved on the sides and not much longer on top. A high and tight, she thought the haircut was called. Lots of male cops adopted the style, too.
Plopping into a chair next to her, he said, “So, you’re the one?”
“Ma
ybe.”
“No maybe about it. My brother’s batshit nuts about you.”
“You just arrived in town. You know this . . . how?”
“By the way he looks at you.”
She arched her brows.
“Like you’re a hot fudge sundae, fifty-yard-line Super Bowl tickets, brand-new Porsche, and virgin nymphomaniac all wrapped in one pretty white package.” He pretended to ogle her borrowed white bathing suit, which by now was covered by an open, white dress shirt of Adam’s with the sleeves rolled up.
“All those things, huh?” She took a sip of her ice water, having given up on alcohol about two hours ago. “And how do I look at him?”
“Like he could butter your biscuit and lick it off any day, anytime.”
“Daaaave!”
“Sorry. That was crude. I heard Tante Lulu say it.” He held up his hands in mock surrender.
“Well, then, it must be all right.” She smiled. “So, you’re home on leave.”
“Sort of.”
That was . . . mysterious. “For sort of how long?”
“Not sure. I might take a temporary assignment at Fort Polk. Go inactive for a little while.”
Definitely a story there, especially when her police skills detected a bit of sorrow in his pale brown eyes. She knew haunted when she saw it.
Adam came back then and squeezed a chair in between her and his brother. “Be prepared,” he said. “The LeDeux looney birds are about to perform.”
“Adam! You promised.”
“Cross my heart. They gave me their word,” he told her. “I wasn’t too hot for the Richard Gere slash Debra Winger nonsense myself, wearing Dave’s uniform.”
“What about my uniform?”
“Ever seen An Officer and a Gentleman? The last scene?”
“Are you kidding? That’s every grunt’s go-to movie for getting laid . . . um, lucky. ’Scuse my language, ma’am,” Dave said to Simone. Then, addressing Adam again, he added, “I could do that routine for you, bro, blindfolded.” As proof, he began to sing “Wind Beneath My Wings.”
“That would defeat the purpose, bro.”
“Which is?”
