Rachel shouldn’t ask, but she did. “Personally?”
“I’ve been married and divorced four times. Four times. All of them skunks. The worst part is my first husband, Raoul Lanier—we called him Rusty—has been sniffin’ around lately, and I swear he’s lookin’ mighty good. A world-class stinker, Rusty was, but, merci, he could make a woman purr like a cat in heat ’mongst the bed sheets. Plus, he’s still got a butt that defies gravity. Whoo-ee!”
Rachel had never expected such a detailed and intimate answer, but one thing stuck out. Her ex-husbands had all been skunks. “I left my ex-fiancé because he was a skunk, too.”
“I know,” Charmaine said, reaching over to pat her hand in sympathy.
“You know?”
“Sure. Ain’t no secrets here. The bayou grapevine picks up everything. Personally, I think you’re better off without the skunk. Not that I’m partial to babies or anything like that, but dammit, your man had no right to take that choice away from you.”
I can’t believe it. This outrageous, garish, totally-different-from-me person has cut right to the quick. She recognizes how I feel. Tears burned Rachel’s eyes, which she immediately blinked away. “Thank you.”
“No problem.” Charmaine seemed to understand perfectly how she’d touched her.
“Color is the first thing, then. My instincts say to get rid of all the purple draperies and fake marble walls, but leave the marble linoleum floors, the columns, and the fountains. I’ll bring a color palette with me next time, but I’m thinking red might be good for the walls, and—”
“Red!” Charmaine exclaimed. “Isn’t that color sort of low-down and Bourbon Street-y?”
Rachel smiled. People often reacted to the color red that way, especially when it was used in an office or elegant dining room. “Not when it’s done right. Red is a vital, energetic color. It can stimulate sexuality and even bring happiness.”
“Sexuality? I like that.”
“Most important, red can sometimes help to halt dissipating energy in a room, and I have to tell you, there is some serious bad chi, or energy, floating around here. I felt it strongly as I walked around, arms extended.”
“Really?”
She nodded. “It makes me wonder about the history of this building. Oftentimes the history of events, especially traumatic events, gets imbedded in the walls of a place.”
“This building was a market back in the eighteen-hundreds,” Charmaine disclosed somewhat reluctantly.
“Hmmm. A farmer’s market shouldn’t do it.”
“No, a different kind of market.” She still seemed hesitant in her answer.
“Oh?”
Charmaine blushed, which made her pink lipstick look oddly attractive. “A slave market.”
Rachel was shocked. “We have serious work to do here. And definitely not red. We need something to soak up this bad chi—maybe green, or blue. Lots of bushy plants, too. Not artificial or silk ones, like you have now. But live ones, which can have a calming effect. No synthetic fibers. Plus, we need to rearrange some of your furniture and work stations; there are too many sharp corners.”
“Sharp corners make bad chi?” Charmaine asked.
“Definitely.”
Just then, the chimes over the front door rang out. Charmaine got up and looked through the archway. “Uh-oh,” she said. “Excuse me for a moment.”
Rachel followed her as she made her way toward the front of the spa and a most amazing sight. A little old lady in mussed-up white curls, a house coat and slippers stood there. Outside, parked in a no-parking zone, was a blue T-bird convertible.
“Hello, Tante Lulu,” Charmaine greeted her new arrival. Apparently, all the LeDeuxs must refer to this woman as aunt, even though she was blood relative through the mother of only three of the males.
“Heard you been doing the hanky-panky with Rusty again? When you gonna learn, girl?”
“I did not!” Charmaine said indignantly. “For the love of Pete, the gossip mill in this town is freakin’ incredible.”
Tante Lulu rolled her eyes in disbelief at her language.
Charmaine gritted her teeth, inhaled and exhaled visibly, then asked ever so sweetly, “What can I do for you?”
“Woke up this mornin’ and decided I need a makeover. I saw Joan Collins on the Regis show yesterday, and she said mature women need to change their make-up and hair ever so often to keep up with the times. So, make me over, Charmaine. I’m expectin’ to come outta here today lookin’ twenty years younger. Like Joan Collins, ’ceptin’ she’s prob’ly my age.”
“Mon Dieu!” Charmaine said under her breath, but aloud, “Whatever you want, chère.”
“Are you still here, girlie?” Tante Lulu was looking at Rachel now. “I thought you’d be back in the big city by now.”
“Yes, I’m still here, and hello to you, too.”
“Doan you be givin’ me no lip. How come you’re still here?”
“I’m visiting my grandmother for awhile. Plus, I’m about to do some work for Charmaine here at her spa.”
Tante Lulu looked disgusted at that news. “Did you put a spell on my nephew?”
“Huh? What nephew?”
“Are you a little slow like that cousin of yers? Remy, thass the only nephew I’d be talkin’ ’bout. Caint stop thinkin’ ’bout you, the boy cain’t.”
“He told you that?”
“Of course not.” In an aside to Charmaine with a hand cupped to her mouth, she remarked, “Slow, for sure.” Then she addressed Rachel again. “No, he didn’t tell me that. I jist know. My boys cain’t hide nothin’ from their auntie.”
Rachel felt as if she’d fallen into Alice in Wonderland’s hole and hadn’t a clue what was going on. One thing was clear, though, she liked the idea of Remy thinking about her. A grin began tugging at her lips.
Tante Lulu heaved a deep, dramatic sigh and said, “Well, I guess there’s nothin’ to be done but hire you.”
“What?” Rachel practically shrieked.
The old lady narrowed her eyes at her. “You’ll work for Charmaine, but you’re too good to work for me?”
“No, it’s not that at all. What would you like me to do?”
“Fungus-way Remy.”
“Tante Lulu!” Charmaine chastened. “Did you even mention this to Remy?”
“It’s a surprise. A birthday present.” The old lady looked guilty as sin.
“I thought his birthday was several weeks ago.”
“It’s one of them belated gifts.”
“I sense a Tante Lulu bombshell coming,” Charmaine said.
“Bomb this,” Tante Lulu said, and stuck her tongue out at Charmaine. It was a ludicrous gesture from the self-proclaimed senior-citizen diva.
Charmaine laughed. “You want I should pierce that baby while you’re here, auntie? You askin’ me for a tongue ring?”
Tante Lulu actually seemed to ponder the question.
“What’s fungus-way?” Rachel asked.
“I think she means Feng Shui,” Charmaine explained.
“I think I doan need you to do my interpretin’,” Tante
Lulu snapped. “If I want her to fungus up Remy, I can speak fer myself. So, how about it, girlie?”
“Oh, I couldn’t. Really. Besides, I thought you didn’t like me.”
“It’s not that I don’t like you, but you’re a Yankee. And you carry all those suitcases with you.”
“Huh? What suitcases?” Rachel asked. Had someone told her about the expensive Louis Vuitton luggage she’d brought with her?
“I think she means baggage. Like, you carry a lot of baggage with you.”
“Goldurn it, Charmaine. I kin speak for myself. Suitcase, baggage, whass the difference? As to you, Missie, when the thunderbolt hits, a person’s just gotta go with the flow.”
“Don’t ask,” Charmaine cautioned.
But she was too late. “What thunderbolt?”
“The love thunderbolt.”
“Leave
her alone,” Charmaine told Tante Lulu in a mortified whisper.
“Shut up, Charmaine, and go buy yerself a chastity belt. Yer gonna need one if that Rusty is after you again.”
Charmaine was doing this open-mouthed gasping thing at Tante Lulu’s nerve.
Rachel hadn’t a clue what Tante Lulu talked about with love thunderbolts, unless she inferred that she and Remy had been hit by such a thing. That was preposterous. Ridiculous. Totally out of the question. Time to be assertive. “I’m here on vacation,” Rachel protested. “I only agreed to redecorate the spa because it’s such a challenge. I usually only do private residences, or offices.”
“Remy would be a challenge, guar-an-teed.”
Does this woman never give up? “No.”
“Think about it.”
“No.” No, no, no! The last thing I need is to put myself in close proximity to that walking sex magnet.
“Remy’s place is kind of small,” Charmaine pointed out.
Tante Lulu glared at her. “Who asked you?” She turned back to Rachel. “Do you only do big places?”
“Noooo,” she answered tentatively. “I’ve done all sizes.”
“See,” Tante Lulu boasted to Charmaine. “She can so do Remy.”
Do Remy? Now, that brought up ideas that Rachel was not about to contemplate—at least not willingly. “I cannot take on another job. I will not be doing Remy. And that’s final.”
“We’ll see,” Tante Lulu said.
Rachel was pretty sure she’d landed in bedlam—Cajun bedlam.
Chapter 6
Jambalaya, crawfish pie, filé gumbo
Remy had invited Luc to lunch at a downtown Houma restaurant, following a morning of meetings with the DEA folks and an extensive ’copter tour of the bayou. He was halfway through his oyster po’boy and Luc was almost done with his Jambalaya topped with warm beaten biscuits, and they still hadn’t gotten down to talking yet.
Good eating: there was nothing like it! Especially for a Cajun. An oft-told legend in Louisiana claimed that a man who died and went to heaven decided to come back when St. Peter told him there was no gumbo on the other side.
“ So, you’re really going to do it?” Luc asked as he motioned the waitress for a coffee refill.
The thick Cajun brew would keep his adrenaline going for another hour, or five. “Mais, oui. I made the commitment days ago, but we got down to the nitty-gritty today. You wouldn’t believe the operation these Colombian fellows have established already. And their target is teenagers, and even younger. Hook ’em young.”
“ Scum of the earth,” Luc commented.
“ Yep.”
“But the bayous hardly seem like a haven for drug lords.”
“ It makes a lot of sense when you think about it. There are a thousand different bayou streams, many of them unnamed. Some appear, some disappear with every storm. Even the oldtimers get lost sometimes. What better place to bring in barges with heavy lead boxes filled with cocaine or heroin, drop them down in the murky depths for future retrieval? Hell, the bayous have been a haven for the bad guys for ages—way back to that pirate, Jean Lafitte. And the Rebs hid gold there during the Civil War.”
Luc nodded. “Wait till René gets a whiff of this. That’s all he needs, one more thing polluting his precious bayou environment, besides the oil industry and sport fishermen.”
Remy nodded now.
“ What exactly will be your role?”
“ Surveillance, especially night watching. Locating suspicious activity. Flying in the SWAT teams. The job description is a work in progress.”
“ Did they cave on the use of your small pad? I assume you’ve had no luck with old lady Fortier.”
“ You would be right. I didn’t even try again with the witch yet. And the government regulations are a bitch. More red tape than a Hallmark store at Christmastime.”
“ And so?”
“ I’ve got to use the airport landing strip for now. A damn nuisance. Of course, I’ll continue my charter business from home, just to maintain a cover, and to annoy the hell out of Gizelle baby with my low flyovers.”
“ Be careful she doesn’t trim your tail feathers, bro, and I don’t mean your metal equipment.”
“Speaking of having your tail feathers trimmed, have you decided yet whether you’ll go under the knife?”
“ Nope. I’m in favor of it, but Sylvie is resisting.”
“ Really?” That news surprised Remy. Most guys would be crossing their legs at the hint of such an operation.
“ She wants to give me a boy. I keep telling her that I’m happy enough with my three girls, but she has it in her head that every man wants a son.”
Do I want a son? Remy asked himself.
No! he answered.
Yes! another voice in his head countered. Probably that plaguey St. Jude. He was being a real pain lately.
Actually, Remy hadn’t thought about kids much at all, whether they be girl or boy babies—mostly because he’d resigned himself to never having a family. He’d told himself over the years that he had no real drive to produce a mini-me, but, bottom line, he’d been rendered sterile by all his operations—some of them way too close to his genitals. Still. . .
The image of a little girl with curly red hair flashed into Remy’s brain, and he almost choked on his coffee. Where did that notion come from? And why red hair?
As if you don’t know! that bothersome voice in his head said.
Ironic, isn’t it, that Rachel left a man because he fixed himself so they couldn’t have children, that Luc is fixin’ to fix himself because he doesn’t want any additional children, and here I am high and dry, unable to produce children? And, dammit, Rachel must really want a family to have left a five-year relationship because of a little snipping.
Nothing in life is really hopeless, the voice inside his brain countered.
He almost told St. Jude to do something that would be sacrilegious.
“ You’re daydreaming,” Luc pointed out with a hoot of laughter. “Sylvie’s been reading lots of magazines about new methods to predetermine the sex of a child. Most of it is bullshit, but, hell, I’m willing to try.” He jiggled his eyebrows at him in emphasis.
“Laissez les bon temps rouler,” Remy quipped the famous Cajun saying.
“ Oh, yeah, I’m gonna let the good times roll, for sure.”
“ While you’re having all those good times, keep a few hours open for Saturday. René is flying in to Naw’lins that morning. One of his old band members is getting married on Saturday afternoon, and he’s in the wedding party. Guess they’re all gonna play a few sets at Swampy’s that night, for old times’ sake. Even the groom.”
René, their middle brother, was an environmental activist in D.C., lobbying hard to protect the bayou ecosystem. At one time, he’d worked as a shrimp fisherman and he’d played a mean accordion in a rowdy band called The Swamp Rats. It should prove to be a fun evening, and it was always good to see his brother.
They walked out the doors of the restaurant into the steamy Louisiana sun. It had rained a half hour ago, hard and fast, but was now mostly dry. “How’s your love life, bro?” Luc asked.
“ Non-existent.”
“ As bad as that?”
“ Worse.” Once again, there was a flashing image of red hair in his head, but this time it was not a little girl, but an all-grown-up one.
“ No prospects?”
“None.”
Liar, that nagging inner voice said.
Go away, St. Jude. I’m not interested in her. It’s the wrong time. Remember? I’m not getting involved with anyone. Anyone. Do you hear me?
Now, there was laughter in his head. Then silence.
Yo, Jude! Has God ever mentioned that you have a talent for developing a deaf ear at the oddest times?
“ Did you say something?” Luc had already turned toward his law office, down the street, where he was taking a deposition today. Remy had parked his vehicle in the back parking
lot. But both of them stopped in their tracks when they saw a blue T-bird parked in front of Charmaine’s beauty spa.
Not today. Please, God, not today.
That odd laughter erupted in his head again. Maybe he was having a delayed reaction after all these years to the traumatic events in his life. Maybe he was going crazy. Maybe he would turn into one of those drooling nut cases in a mental hospital who stumbled around talking to the voices in his head. Nice thought, that.
“ Tante Lulu!” Remy announced unnecessarily.
“ Oh, shit!” Luc contributed.
Remy hadn’t seen his aunt this past week, and he sure as hell wasn’t up for her usual interrogations now. She probably had a boxload of crocheted linens in her back seat for his hope chest. Gawd! Maybe he could sic her on René, or start her on a hope chest for his brother, to divert attention away from himself. Nah! That wouldn’t be fair.
Despite their misgivings about running into their aunt, neither of them had the heart to turn back. Luc entered the door first, tossing an “Uh-oh” over his shoulder.
“Uh-oh” about said it all, Remy concluded, as he entered the spa and took in not only his aunt in of all things a house coat and house slippers, but his always-outlandish half-sister Charmaine who had a mouth that could out-blue a sailor when it suited her. But there stood the splinter that had been stuck in his brain for the past week—an erotic splinter, to be precise. He’d been trying for six days, fifteen hours and who knew how many minutes to forget about the impact of “The Kiss.” And, yeah, hokey as it sounded, that’s how he’d come to think of that mind-blowing lip exercise they’d participated in—the one that had sucked the good sense out of his good intentions and turned his mind on one track only. Could a man die from thinking about sex too much? If so, he was dead as a swamp stump.
Rachel Fortier stood staring at him. Her red hair was upswept today into some kind of little knot atop her head, leaving her long neck exposed and oddly vulnerable. She wore a halter sundress in a green and white floral pattern which barely reached her knees. All that skin! Remy fanned himself mentally. On her bare feet coral-tipped toenails peeped out of white sandals. She was the sexiest thing he’d ever seen.