Tall, Dark, and Cajun

  “Will you make a pie with these?” Rachel asked, glancing down at the bucket of berries.

  “Nope. Gonna make preserves this time. Gotta replenish my supply. Nothin’ like blackberry jam on warm bread on a blustery, cold winter day.”

  Rachel couldn’t imagine any day in Louisiana, even wintertime, being cold. As to her grandmother’s supplies, well, holy cow! She’d shown Rachel her root cellar several days ago which had floor-to-low-ceiling shelves filled with jars of everything from preserved fruit to chow-chow to pickled pigs’ feet to okra—lots of okra. Besides that, a battery-operated box freezer down there was half-full with white paper-wrapped native fish, wild game, pork in every variety—chops, roasts, hams, bacon, scrapple, souse— turkey, chickens, even alligator and snake. Yes, snake, which Granny said tasted just like chicken when sautéed with butter, to which Rachel had replied, “I’ll never know.”

  A sudden question occurred to her. “Granny, are you and Beau able to get by on your own garden and animals, supplemented by hunting and fishing and egg hunting and berry picking?”

  Granny shrugged. “Pretty much. I get a small Social Security check from Uncle Sam since Justin and me usta sell our sugar to the coop, and they took out the taxes. Thass enuf fer us to get by, ’long with Beau’s fur sales. Plus, he sells the meat to them hoity-toity restaurants in Naw’lins where peoples pay big money to eat such lowdown meats as possum and squirrel.”

  “I haven’t noticed you off trapping lately,” Rachel said to Beau.

  “Trappin’s best in the winter when the pelts are thicker,” he answered. “Won’t be startin’ up again fer another two months or so.”

  Thank God! I’ll be long gone by then.

  At first, Rachel had pitied her grandmother and Beau, to be living in such a primitive way, at what appeared mere subsistence level to her, but she realized now that she’d been wrong. They met their own needs by working hard. They took from the land but treated it with respect. Except for a few extravagances—like the television and satellite dish so that Granny could watch her soaps and Emeril Live, and Beau could watch the Nascar races—a must here in the South—they had everything to make them happy, or at least content. It was not a bad life. Really.

  And that made Rachel wonder about her own life. She’d worked so hard since she graduated from college a decade ago. For what? Money? Success? Self-satisfaction?

  Was she happy?

  Well, yes, to some extent. She did enjoy decorating, especially the Feng Shui aspects of it. And she took pride in her work. As to success? If money was any indicator, she was fairly successful.

  Bottom line, Am I really happy?

  Not totally, was her immediate answer.

  She was only now beginning to realize why. It was family, pure and simple. Oh, not family as defined by babies and all that. Her leaving David was about his autocratic decision-making, not the baby issue itself. But she missed being part of a family, her adoptive parents having died six months apart when she was a senior in college. She’d never experienced family life as a child. That made her wonder if she really did yearn to have a family of her own, including babies. Hmmm. Something to think about.

  The oddest thing happened then. Into her head flashed an image of a little boy with black hair and dark Cajun eyes, playing with, of all things, a pet alligator.

  Quickly, Rachel shook her head from side to side to rid herself of the ridiculous, outrageous, out-of-the-question notion. Because there was no doubt in her mind at all. The little boy she’d just seen belonged to Remy LeDeux.

  “Whass a matter? Got a bug in yer ear?” Beau asked.

  Rachel realized she was still shaking her head. “No, just daydreaming.”

  ” ’Bout that Remy LeDeux, no doubt,” Granny griped.

  “I was picturing fabric samples in my head,” Rachel lied.

  She couldn’t fool Granny. “Whass the world comin’ to when a Fortier goes all knock-kneed and wooly-headed over a LeDeux?”

  Me? Knock-kneed and wooly-headed? That is just swell.

  “Time to go shoot us some dinner,” Beau said, standing up and reaching for his rifle.

  Oh, God, am I really going to watch someone kill a little bunny rabbit? Hah! Not if I can help it! “Just a minute, Beau. I was wondering, uh, let’s make a bargain here. If you’ll forego the rabbit hunting today, I’ll make you the best five-cheese macaroni and cheese you’ve ever tasted in all your life, topped off with a crème caramel for dessert.”

  Beau looked interested, but he hesitated. “Don’t suppose you’d agree to go to The Swamp Shack with me tonight, as a little added lagniappe.” Rachel knew even before coming to Louisiana that lagniappe was the old French custom of merchants tossing in a little something extra for a customer. Like a baker giving a patron thirteen donuts, instead of a dozen.

  “How many cheeses did you say was in that dish?” Granny asked. “I ever was partial to cheese. And caramel.” Rachel looked at Beau, who practically gloated. “Swampy’s, it is,” she agreed. Rachel could swear she heard laughter in her head.

  Honky-tonk angel, or whatever

  Remy was in the mood for a good time tonight.

  He sat at a round ringside table with Luc, Sylvie, Charmaine and one of his newfound friends from the DEA, Larry Ellis, who couldn’t stop gawking at Charmaine’s chest in a low-cut, glow-in-the dark, sparkly T-shirt which quoted a suggestive hairdresser logo, FLIP THAT! You’d think Larry had never witnessed the effects of a push-up bra before.

  Remy had worked hard all week, and he needed a little R&R. The beer went down smooth and cold, the company warmed his soul, and the music .. . well, who couldn’t be happy when good Cajun music played on the jukebox?

  René would be here soon with his group to provide some live entertainment. He couldn’t wait. The Swamp Rats were a local legend. The place was especially crowded tonight, anticipating an encore of The Swamp Rats’ renowned low-down Cajun music, mixed in with a little zydeco. René should have been here hours ago, but the wedding party had been held up by rain at the photo shoot. His brother had asked Remy to go over to his apartment and grab a change of clothes and his accordion.

  A slow rendition of “Cajun Born” was playing now, and Luc stood, holding out a hand for Sylvie. They’d been married four years now, but you’d never know it the way they looked at each other. Sylvie looped her arms around Luc’s neck. Luc looped his hands around her waist, then tugged hard so they were flush against each other. Their dancing amounted to little more than swaying from side to side, but, man oh man, it was the best dancing Remy had ever seen. The whole time they just stared into each other’s eyes, little smiles on their lips.

  Remy’s chest walls tightened with a fierce yearning.

  If only I . . .

  What if. . .

  Are soulmates fated or. . .

  These half-thoughts drifted through Remy’s mind as he struggled to understand his emotions. It had taken him three full days to wipe one redheaded witch from his mind, and he’d succeeded, dammit. Enough! It was Saturday night. No time to be sappy.

  Just then, someone pulled the plug on the jukebox. In the stunned silence, everyone turned toward the front door where a man in a tuxedo, Clarence Dubois, let out a wild Rebel yell, then pulled his bride through the door with him; he carried a guitar in the other hand. His ushers, who also happened to be former band members, followed, dancing in a snakelike fashion up to the small stage, already singing and playing their instruments—fiddles, accordions, trumpets, frottoirs, which were over-the-shoulder washboards. A loud, rowdy rendition of “Sugar Bee” filled the air. René, still in a tux, like the rest of the party, played a mean accordion. He waved as he snaked by.

  Once on the stage, one of the band members sank down to a piano stool. They immediately segued into “Colinda,” which the groom sang to his bride, whom he’d brought up onto the stage with him. It was an old song, and just a coincidence that the bride’s name happened to be Colinda, too. When he crooned, “My Colind
a,” it was as if he’d written the song himself for his very own sweetheart.

  The crowd sang along with the band, clapping to the beat of the music. Remy tipped back his chair, took a swig from his frosty long-neck bottle of Dixie beer, and scanned the large room. It was always a good idea to keep an eye out for strangers, suspicious characters who might be in the area selling drugs, looking for connections, that kind of thing. The bayou had an extensive grapevine and its inhabitants were aware of any newcomers to the area. Still, best that he be on his toes, considering his job.

  As he quickly scrutinized the room, his visual search snagged on a woman in a red dress, standing near the bar. Then shot right back in a double take of enormous magnitude.

  It was Rachel Fortier, with her cousin Beau, who was hitting on some chick in tight jeans and a push-up bra, the attire du jour tonight, it would seem. But the push-up bra ladies had nothing on Rachel, who wore a short, skintight dress of hotter-than-sin red with only thin spaghetti straps holding it up. Her red hair billowed out around her, down her back and over her bare shoulders, held off her face slightly by barrettes on each side. Her high-heeled sandals made her taller than usual. She was overdressed for this crowd by a Yankee mile, but who the hell cared. She looked like pure temptation—the quintessential Eve in the Garden of Eden. He was no Adam, but he hot damn suspected he was about to bite the apple.

  Remy stood abruptly, almost knocking over his chair.

  “Where are you going?” Luc asked. “The band’s just starting.”

  “Are you sick?” Sylvie inquired. “You look a little odd.”

  “I know that look, and it ain’t odd,” Charmaine commented and took a long swig of her highball.

  Ellis was still on another planet over Charmaine’s boobs.

  As he walked back toward the bar, the band ended one song and immediately broke into “Lady in Red.” As far from Cajun music as any band could get. Obviously, they saw where he headed. René—blast his hide—sang and laughed at the same time.

  All the people in the bar craned their necks to see where such a lady in red could be. They quickly found her. Sure as sunshine, Rachel was going to be deluged within moments by hordes of men, asking her to dance—and other things.

  Rachel looked as if she’d like to sink into the floor with embarrassment over all the attention she garnered. In fact, she turned on her heels and was about to flee when he grabbed her upper arm and pulled her to a halt.

  “Whoa, chère, where are you off to in such a hurry?”

  “I’ve got to get out of here.”

  If he was a smart man, he would escort her to her car and say, “So long, sugar.” If he was a smart man, he would stop ogling all that bare skin. If he was a smart man, his heart would slow down to a mild roar. If he was a smart man, he wouldn’t be so freakin’ happy to see this woman, who was either a witch sent by Satan to bedevil him, or an angel sent by God or St. Jude as reward for some long-ago good deed.

  Remy—obviously not a smart man—said in a voice so husky he barely recognized himself, “Don’t go, angel.”

  Chapter 8

  What was I thinking?

  Rachel stood frozen in place, mortified, as the band played “Lady in Red,” and everyone looked at her. Even Remy seemed to be in total shock.

  The dress, which clung to her body like static electricity, didn’t even belong to her. It was one of Jill’s castoffs; Jill must have slipped it in her suitcase as a practical joke, to go along with her husband’s REDHOT loaner truck. Rachel never wore red, not with her red hair—too much of an attention grabber. And she never, ever wore such revealing clothing—not with the body issues she harbored under David’s exercise regimen. Her only excuse was that she’d been feeling more independent of late, breaking away from her old please-everyone-but-me mode. Wearing the dress had been an act of rebellion, in a way. Or stupidity.

  Remy finally shook himself out of his stupor and tugged on her arm, steering her into a quieter corridor, which led to a billiard room. Meanwhile, the band continued to play that horrible song.

  “Aliens must have invaded my brain,” she said on a moan of disgust. She sagged against the wall and Remy leaned over her with an arm braced above her head, placing his face far too close to hers in an attempt to hear her words.

  “Why is that?”

  “This dress.” She waved a hand downward to illustrate.

  “Honey, you look hot in that dress.”

  She didn’t even pretend to misread his words. “I hope you don’t think that’s a compliment.”

  He ran a forefinger under one spaghetti strap, from shoulder to bodice and said, “Definitely a compliment.”

  She shouldn’t have been pleased. She shouldn’t find the mere brush of the back of his fingertip erotic. She shouldn’t be standing here, plastered to the wall like a swooning twit, but she seemed unable to move.

  “The dress is great, but it’s what’s inside that blows my mind.”

  Oh, my! “It doesn’t belong to me—the dress, I mean.” That was a sparkling bit of irrelevancy, Ms. Twit.

  “You smell like heaven.”

  It’s Granny’s ’Skin So Soft’ soap. It repels insects.” Where did my brain go? Twit, twit, twit.

  He grinned. “It’s doing a lousy job of repelling me.” Then he immediately turned serious. “What are we going to do, babe?”

  “About what?” Like I don’t know.

  “Us.”

  Oh, my! Again. “There is no ’us,’ Remy.”

  “I thought I was over you.”

  Me, too. “There was nothing to get over.”

  “Three days away, total cure, then one gander at you in that kiss-me-quick red dress, and I’m a goner. What are you doing to me?”

  “What am I doing to you? That’s a good one! What are you doing to me?”

  He smiled that slow, sexy grin of his to show his masculine satisfaction that he did something to her. She ought to smack that grin right off. Or kiss it off.

  Their conversation halted momentarily with the passage of three women in their mid-twenties who headed toward the pool room. They were big haired, big breasted and poured into their jeans. Each of them gave Remy a very interested once-over, but their faces went immediately blank when he turned slightly and they saw the other side of his face.

  “Don’t you dare go pitying me. Don’t you dare,” Remy practically hissed once they had passed.

  “They’re blind. Why can’t they see what I see?”

  “Maybe you’re the one who’s blind.” Remy’s voice was husky as he wiped the tears about to overflow her eyes.

  Just then, the band abruptly ended “Lady in Red” and someone in the band began to sing loud and clear, “Reeeeemmmmy! Oh, Remy!” In the background, the band played a soft instrumental version of that old Hank Williams’ song, “Jambalaya.”

  “Huh?” Rachel frowned. Who would be calling for Remy, from the band, no less? They couldn’t even see him back here.

  “Ooooh, Remy. Come here, cowboy. And bring the lady in red with you. Time for a first dance—’Lady in Red’ meets ’Loo-zee-anna Man.’ Time for a good ol’ Cajun boy to show the city girl how it’s done. What do you think, folks?”

  “It’s my brother René,” Remy said on a moan.

  “He has a warped sense of humor.”

  “For sure.”

  The crowd clapped and cheered, “Remy, Remy, Remy!” along with the man who started it all, alternating with, “Lady in Red, Louisiana Man . . . Remy, Lady, Remy, Lady . . . ”

  “I’m going to kill him,” Remy said.

  “Can I help?”

  “We better go out there, or he’ll keep it up.” Remy stepped back from her, and already she missed his body heat.

  “Can’t we just sneak out?”

  “Not without being seen.”

  He took her hand and pulled her toward the end of the corridor that opened into the tavern itself.

  She walked in front of Remy, but she glanced back over her s
houlder at one point to make sure he wasn’t looking at her butt in the tight dress.

  Yep, he was looking at her butt in the tight dress.

  When she turned back around, a huge bald guy with a mustache and one gold loop earring blocked their way. He held out a tray of shot glasses. Some of them held raw oysters, one per glass, the others some type of liquor.

  “Hey, Gator, what’s up?” Remy asked, looked pointedly at the big guy with the tray of drinks—presumably the bartender.

  “Luc sent them for you. Said you’ll probably need them since René is in rare form tonight.”

  “Oyster shooters?”

  “Yep, said they worked for him and Sylvie. I know for a fact they did. I was here that night.” He rolled his eyes at Rachel to illustrate his point, which she missed.

  “Do you like raw oysters?” Remy asked her.

  “They’re okay.”

  “These have Cajun lightning on them. Tabasco sauce. They’re so hot you need a wet chaser—in this case one hundred-proof pure bourbon.” He illustrated by tilting his head back, downing the oyster, then immediately following it with the shot of bourbon. “Whoo!” he said, shaking his head briskly from side to side.

  Tentatively, Rachel did the same thing, and, holy smoke, she should have listened to Remy’s warning. It felt like liquid fire going down her throat, to her stomach, and out to all her extremities—both the tabasco and the bourbon. She said, “Whoo!” as well, and had to hold onto Remy’s arm because she suddenly felt woozy.

  “There they are,” René yelled out to the crowd, which began clapping. “Come on, you two. You can’t hide from us.”

  She hadn’t realized they were visible to the stage from here. “I think I need more fortification.” Rachel reached for another set of shot glasses.

  Remy did the same.

  “Oh, my God,” she choked out. If one oyster shooter had her insides boiling, this second one had every hair on her body standing on end. She could swear all the muscles in her legs had turned to jelly, as well.