If Wishes Were Kisses: Six Beloved Americana Romances, a Collection (Small Town Swains)

by Pamela Morsi

  A private word with the beautiful Mademoiselle Gaudet, however, proved to be difficult. Placide Marchand and Ignace Granger stood on either side of her, both calf-eyed and flirty. A beautiful woman, even one betrothed, was most often the recipient of the attention of single men. It was the pattern to practice one's wit and charm upon the unattainable until a man set his goal on the woman with whom he wished to share his life.

  "Mademoiselle Gaudet," Armand said, tipping his hat to her politely. "You are looking very lovely today, as usual."

  Aida smiled, appearing inordinately pleased at his words, and managed an attractive little curtsy.

  "Thank you, Monsieur Sonnier," she said in the low sweet voice that was somehow both innocent and enticing.

  The two gentlemen at her side kept the conversation moving. The young beauty mostly smiled and giggled and flirted behind her fan. Armand watched her with interest. It was no strain. He had been watching her most of his life. She was exceptional. It was easy to understand why Laron thought to marry her. It was easy to see why his brother would feel attracted to her.

  But Aida Gaudet was out of the reach of his married brother. And out of his own reach, literally as well as figuratively. In the back of his mind lurked the temptation to win her for himself. Laron did not want her. Jean Baptiste could not have her. She should be his. He pushed the thought away as unworthy of him. It was unlikely that a woman such as her would come to love a man like him. She was bright and beautiful in all the ways that he was dull and ordinary.

  They had once been very close. Now Armand treated her with deference and distance. Even before she was promised to his best friend, he had known her to be singularly unsuited to the life he would have to offer a bride, the life of a quiet, conventional scholar. And if in the darkness of some lonely night he imagined the soft curve of her breast against his hand or the plump, pinkness of her lips raised to him in a pretty pucker, he had never nor would ever, give evidence to those dreams.

  His brother's marriage was in danger and he must do what he could to save it. There was no time to waste upon his own foolish fantasies. Aida Gaudet was not for him. It would take a miracle or a magic spell to capture her attention.

  But she already cared for Laron. She already wanted to marry him. Armand had to make sure that she did.

  "Will you be holding court upon your porch this day?" he asked her directly, referring to the accepted practice of receiving gentlemen callers on Sunday afternoons.

  She lowered her lashes. It was a pretty gesture, one that on another female might indicate shyness, but everyone knew that with Mademoiselle Gaudet it was flirtation. "I do hope so," she said. "A young lady would be bereft should she sit Sunday upon her porch alone."

  "As if such a calamity could ever befall you, mamselle," Granger piped in effusively. "I intend to spend a pleasant hour in your company, if you please."

  "And myself also," Placide added. "I would not enjoy Sunday did it not include you, Mademoiselle Gaudet."

  Aida blushed prettily. "You are always welcome," she told them. "I will be there and my dear friend Ruby has agreed to come and sit with me."

  "Ah Ruby!" Granger exclaimed. He glanced toward Armand. "Dear Ruby, she is such a sweet thing and so devout."

  Marchand was also gazing pointedly in Armand's direction. "Yes, Ruby is not so tall as some of the ladies and would make a fine wife for any man."

  Armand felt his face flame with embarrassment and humiliation. Did they think he was setting a tendre for Ruby? Armand would readily admit that he was shorter than any man on Prairie l'Acadie, but lack of height did not mean desperation.

  "I assume that Laron will be there," Armand explained quickly. "I need to speak with him about a personal concern."

  "Of course my fiancé will be there," Aida assured him. "I should be quite put out if he were to neglect me."

  "And he would be quite the fool to do so," Granger said.

  "But he is already quite the fool to have delayed the wedding for so long," Placide blurted out.

  Aida visibly paled.

  Guiltily, as it were more his fault than his friend's, Armand came to her rescue. "You are the fool, Marchand, if you think it is Laron who puts off this wedding. Of course it is Mademoiselle Gaudet who hesitates to tie herself to such a knave as Boudreau."

  Placide shifted his feet.

  Aida glanced at Armand, grateful. He smiled back broadly. "I admit my friend is a knave," he told her. "But I speak highly of him just the same." Armand gave the other two men a long look. "He is the best of knaves at least."

  Aida giggled out loud.

  Armand found himself more than a little pleased that he'd eased over Placide's gaffe. Now if he could only undo the thoughtless words that he himself had spoken, the much more serious ones that put the happiness of his own brother and this lovely young woman in jeopardy.

  The porch at the home of Aida Gaudet was crowded. Ignace Granger and Placide Marchand were in attendance, each trying to outdo the other with gracious compliments and clever conversation. Pierre Babin had brought both Ruby and her mother and seemed to be enjoying himself.

  Hippolyte Arceneaux and his wife had been poling by on their way to visit their grandchildren when Madame Arceneaux spotted Madame Babin on the porch. Nothing would do but for her to drop in for a bit of gossip. Hippolyte had been sent ahead to tell his daughter-in-law why they were late. He returned shortly with the young Madame Arceneaux, her husband Francois, and her two little sons.

  The older women were interested in the babies. Francois was interested in Jesper's grain mill. Jesper was interested in explaining its operation at great length. And Hippolyte had no hesitation about offering his two cents' worth of advice on any subject.

  The younger men, Placide, Ignace, and Pierre, were chagrined by the topic of conversation and tried valiantly to turn it to more frivolous banter suited for Sunday afternoon. When that proved impossible, the two merely commenced a rival conversation.

  That worked for a while, but ultimately in order to be heard over Jesper Gaudet, the younger men spoke up a bit. Then Hippolyte, fearing that Francois and Jesper would not concede his point, raised the level of his voice also. That caused Placide and Ignace to speak even louder. The babies began to wail and the mother and grandmother began to coo. The crying woke Jesper's old dog, who set up a howl. Within minutes the Gaudet front porch became as noisy and confusing as the Tower of Babel.

  Aida sat beside Ruby on a long wash bench, smiling occasionally at Ignace and Placide. Their attempt at conversing about more simple subjects was certainly commendable when compared to the behavior of Armand Sonnier. He sat on the steps, serious and silent, his back propped against the porch, gazing out at the river.

  He was obviously disgruntled. Aida watched him out of the corner of her eye with distress. He was not one of her admirers, that was clear. Unlike younger, less learned fellows like Marchand and Granger, he undoubtedly found her silly and boring. Everyone knew he was the smartest man on the river, and he had come there to speak with Laron Boudreau. She had told him that her fiancé would be there, but he was not.

  Sitting amid the near-deafening clamor, Aida pretended that she was not concerned. She pretended she was not embarrassed. Or even humiliated. She pretended that a fiancé’s failure to appear on Sunday afternoon was not unusual.

  Deliberately she smiled her little half-smile at the young men. She was dressed as prettily as was permitted for a Sunday on the porch. And she had managed, after nearly a half-hour of struggling, to get her hair to hang in one long thick black curl down her shoulder. It was not altogether proper, but so far none of the women had commented on it. Of course they had another juicy bit of gossip to chew upon. Laron's absence.

  Aida held Ruby's hand, as much to give the other girl courage among the company as to take some for herself. She flirted, tittered, and giggled at moments that seemed appropriate. Purposefully she tried not to think about the only thing that she could think about. Laron had not shown
up.

  This was not the first time that he had failed to sit Sunday on her porch. There had been other Sundays, however rare, when he had failed to appear. She had not been happy then. And she was not happy now.

  She knew her father would be asking questions later. Madame Arceneaux and Madame Babin would be whispering the fact to anyone willing to take a half-minute to listen. And somehow Father Denis would find a way to blame her. But worse than his mere absence was the gossip, brought to the Gaudet porch with some embarrassment by Francois, that Laron Boudreau was down on the river somewhere. And that he was drinking. Unusual behavior indeed—and especially for a supposedly besotted bridegroom.

  She smiled. She laughed. She entertained her guests. But inside, Aida Gaudet's stomach twisted and churned. She surreptitiously laid a soothing hand against the raw, burning pain. It wouldn't do to show her discomfort. Young ladies took to their beds

  when they were not feeling well. But if she took to her bed, everyone would think she was wretched over Laron. They would all think that she was sorrowing and fearful that he no longer wanted to marry her. They would all think that she suspected him and the German widow.

  Aida laughed lightly and shook her head, casually calling attention to the one long thick black curl hanging down her shoulder.

  "Oh you silly farceur! What a joker you are!" she exclaimed, tapping Ignace lightly on the sleeve with her fan. "How can a woman know when you are telling her the truth or when you are fooling her?"

  Ignace didn't get a chance to answer.

  "Walk out with me."

  The words came abruptly from the mouth of Armand Sonnier.

  Every voice on the porch was suddenly silenced.

  For a moment Aida eyed Armand with disbelief. Armand Sonnier wanted to walk out with her? Then reality set it. It was a poor choice of words. She cast a quick warning glance to her father. Please don't say anything, her eyes begged silently. Please, please.

  Armand, of course, hadn't meant he wanted her to "walk out with him" as in walk alone so he could sweet-talk her, but simply that he wanted a private word. Belatedly he realized what he'd said and appeared almost as dumbstruck as those sitting on the porch.

  "Of course, Monsieur Sonnier," Aida answered lightly, rising to her feet. "I do not believe that I have shown you my herb garden. And I am sure, being as close to Madame Landry as you are, you must surely have a great interest in cultured plants."

  He must wish to discuss Laron, Aida thought to herself. It must be that he wished to discuss his friend. Otherwise she was certain that Armand Sonnier would not have made such a suggestion.

  She rose to her feet and he offered her hand.

  "If I do say so myself, monsieur," she continued brightly, "I have a way with gardening."

  Determinedly she allowed him to lead her down the steps. She refused to look behind her at their audience as she took his arm and strolled beside him. She began to chatter.

  "It's . . . it's a lovely day," she said.

  "Hmmm? Oh yes," he said.

  She glanced over at him. He was gazing off into the distance, obviously lost in thought. His light brown hair was not slicked down with sweet grease like that of the other young men. It had a tousled, wind-blown look that was attractive in a sort of disheveled way.

  "It's neither too hot nor too cold," she continued. "It seems that this might be the best weather that we've had in several months."

  He nodded.

  "But of course winter is coming," Aida rattled on. "Why, the sky this morning looked like bad weather heading our way soon."

  She heard herself prattling aimlessly, but couldn't seem to stop. The late-afternoon sun threw their long lazy shadows along the grass as they walked. The cool slick grass under her bare feet was soothing; still her heart fluttered nervously.

  Armand Sonnier was Laron's best friend. He was also without doubt the smartest man in the parish. What in the world could she have to say to him that would be interesting or entertaining? He probably spent his days thinking about things that she could never understand. Talking about things she'd never heard of and shaking his head in pity at foolish young women who have nothing more to recommend them than a pretty face and spend half an hour fixing a long thick curl of black hair.

  "Of course, I love winter almost as much as fall," she told him. "All the seasons have their own specialness, I suppose. I love the prairies in springtime when they are full of wildflowers. The bayou is at its best in summer when the hyacinth and lilies bloom on the water. In autumn the leaves on the trees change to red, yellow, and gold. And in the winter, well I suppose that it's the absence of all that beauty that makes us recall it with such wonder."

  Armand stopped still and turned to look at her. His blue eyes studied her intensely. He was no taller than she was. And it was strange, unusual, to look a man straight in the eye, just as if ... as if he were someone just like her.

  Aida flushed and glanced away. Of course he was nothing like her. He was a literate man. Her own father counted on him in trading with the Creoles and Americaines and he was the judge, the representative of the state of Louisiana in the parish. He was not at all like her.

  "And winter is nice also because there is much time for dances and fais-dodo and get-togethers," she added.

  He nodded and remained silent, his expression still pensive.

  What was he thinking? Aida couldn't help wondering that. When he kept his silence for so long was his mind a blank or was he having an involved conversation with himself? A conversation about truth or religion or life? Did he agree with himself? Or were arguments going on in his head? Aida could only imagine. Momentarily she floundered as she sought for another topic for conversation. The weather had been stretched about as far as it would go. Had it been Ignace or Placide, she would have merely talked about herself. Somehow she didn't think that Monsieur Sonnier would be interested. With him she could not get away with a pretense of frivolity. He knew her too well.

  Armand was so smart, so serious, so sober. Of course it was quite true that he could tell a good joke. But he never seemed to feel like laughing when he was with her. He must consider her a silly scatter-brain. Most of the Acadian men liked her silliness. Armand Sonnier obviously did not.

  It was unfortunate that he was not more like his older brother, Jean Baptiste. She remembered how charming he was at the fais-dodo when he helped her with her shoes.

  "How is your brother?" she asked, delighted with herself at coming up with such an agreeable subject. She liked Jean Baptiste, and Armand obviously cared about his brother. Exchanging views on their mutual regard for him would be easier than discussing the weather.

  To her surprise Armand's expression took on a guarded, almost hostile look.

  "He is well," he said. There was a gruffness to his voice that discouraged her.

  Aida was unsure.

  "He's a very good dancer," she said. "He partners me at nearly every fais-dodo. I always feel like I'm simply floating on his arm."

  "Laron is the best dancer on the river," Armand stated flatly.

  "Why yes, I know that he is," Aida admitted. "But perhaps I am partial in my judgment. Your brother is very good, too. I remember watching him dance with Felicite at their wedding. I was so envious. She was so lovely and I was so very young and gauche."

  "But that's all changed now, hasn't it?" Armand said. He was looking at her so sternly that she was confused. His words were, she assumed, meant as a compliment. She was no longer so young and gauche. She was the most beautiful woman on the Vermilion River and everyone knew it. Still, he said it in such a way that made it sound almost as if he were angry at her for growing up and being pretty.

  "Yes, I guess things have changed a bit. I have grown older, after all," she said.

  His eyes narrowed. Her answer obviously did not please him. They stood at the edge of the small herb garden that grew by the side of her house. They were still in plain sight of the others. Aida could feel the curious eyes on her back. But
they were completely out of hearing range.

  "Are you and Laron making plans to wed soon?" he asked her.

  Aida's brow furrowed. "Why, why yes, we are," she said, somewhat taken aback. "We discussed it the last time we spoke," she told him.

  "Oh?"

  "We are ... we are going to wed in the spring."

  He hesitated for a long moment, watching her. It was as if he were assessing her, gauging her.

  "Laron is a good man, hardworking and honest. A woman could hardly do better than to have him as husband."

  She glanced away, embarrassed at the intensity of his look.

  "You need not trouble yourself to convince me," she answered. "I decided some time ago that Monsieur Boudreau would suit me perfectly."

  He nodded solemnly. "Yes, you two are a handsome couple."

  Aida felt a moment's irritation. She wanted to explain that although Laron was quite attractive, that was not why she was marrying him. Laron needed her. He needed her father's land and he needed the prosperity that marriage to her would offer. And because he needed her for those things, he might learn to love her for herself. She said none of that.

  "I don't think the spring will be soon enough, Mademoiselle Gaudet," he continued firmly. "I think that you and my friend should marry soon, very soon."

  Chapter Eight

  "Where in the devil have you been?"

  Armand Sonnier's angry words echoed painfully through the groggy haze that seemed to envelope Laron's brain. He looked up from his position on the foul-smelling bed tick in the corner of the Hebert barn and squinted.

  "For God's sake, don't shout," he answered.

  Laron rolled out of his sleeping place and onto his knees. His head pounded and felt ready to crack open from the pressure inside. He noted with amazement that his brother-in-law's barn seemed to tilt abruptly and his stomach nearly rebelled at the motion. He reached over for the bottle, knowing it to be both cause and cure for his ailment.

  "What is that?" Armand's question was incredulous.