A Dixie Christmas (18 page)

“Remy usta give him moon pies, but he’d get on such a sugar high, he even scared the other gators. And he was gettin’ fat. So, we changed ta cheese doodles.”

This is real interesting, but . . .

“This is real interestin’, Lance, but we gots work ta do. Reach down here, boy, and gimme some sugar.”

Lance was six foot tall. Tante Lulu was about five foot zero. Bending was in fact a necessity. When he did lean down, and she gave him a warm hug, followed by a kiss on both cheeks, he felt an odd sort of warmth rush through him. He suddenly knew he’d done the right thing coming to the old lady for help.

“Did you feel that?” he asked.

“Feel what, honey?”

“That shot of
 . . .
I don’t know
 . . .
electricity, heat, something?”

She patted him on the hand. “Thass jist St. Jude workin’ through me. And doan be givin’ me that disbelievin’ look. Ya want help, ya gotta believe.”

They entered the cottage, whose low ceiling barely missed hitting the top of Lance’s head. The living room was cozy, with a Christmas tree sitting in one corner with its lights blinking, fake holly draped over a fireplace mantle, kitchy Santa’s and elves, mixed in with St. Jude statues, on every table surface, and Christmas music coming out of an old fashioned console type record player
 . . .
Cajun Christmas music, a mixture of French and English. The walls were adorned with a couple dozen framed photographs. Her nephews, he supposed
 . . .
Luc, Remy, René and Tee-John, her niece Charmaine, and their various spouses and children. There were lots of them. He’d met most of them at Caleb’s wedding; Caleb was a member of the Jinx treasure hunting team, along with Brenda.

“Come, you, sit yer purty self down,” she said, leading him into her kitchen, which was a step back in time
 . . .
to the 1940s, he would guess. Enamel table, metal chairs with red Naugahyde cushioned seats, a wide porcelain sink under a window with red and white checkered curtains. Dried spices hung from the ceiling, giving the room a wonderful aroma, accented by the delicious odors coming from a pot cooking on the stove. It was a pleasant room. Martha Stewart, despite her high tech kitchens, would love this place.

The kitchen, in fact the whole house, held ambiance. Lance laughed to himself, that he would even know such a word. Hell, it’s what his decorator had said when designing his home in Houston, and it was cold as steel compared to this. Brenda would love this.

That thought brought him to the point of this visit. But before he could speak, Tante Lulu placed a bowl of gumbo, several slices of warm bread and butter, and a mug of coffee in front of him, with the words, “
Bon appetit
!” Then said, out of the blue, “Do you know Richard Simmons?”

“Ummm, this is good,” he said, taking his first bite of the thick, Cajun, stew-like dish. “Do you mean Richard Simmons, the exercise nut?”

Tante Lulu inhaled sharply and slapped him on the shoulder with a dish towel. “Shame on you. Richard ain’t a nut. He’s a hunk. If I was younger, I’d go after him, guaranteed.”

“Okaaaay.”
Someone’s nuts around here, but I don’t know if it’s me, Richard Simmons, or this Cajun fruitcake here.
But he was raised to be polite. “You’re not that old.”

Tante Lulu laughed. “Sweetie, I’m so old I coulda been a waitress at the Last Supper. Not that I don’t still have some snap in my garters.”

No way was he going to step in that minefield. “This is really good.” He hadn’t realized he was so hungry and didn’t even protest when Tante Lulu refilled his bowl without asking.

“You sure are good lookin’, boy. Purtier than a speckled pup. Betcha the wimmen chase ya lak crazy. Betcha think yer hotter ’n a pig’s butt in a pepper patch.”

“I
do not
think I’m hotter than
 . . .
what you said.”

“Well, dontcha be havin’ a hissy fit. There ain’t that many men as hot as Richard.”

“Richard Petty?”

“No, aintcha been listenin’? Richard Simmons. Mebbe ya know someone who knows him and ya kin invite Richard to the Lance Caslow and the Cajun Bad Boys show?”

Lance sputtered into his coffee. “Huh?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “I’m a
traiteur . . .
a healer
 . . .
but that doan mean I have special afro-diss-aks in my pocket. Ya weren’t thinkin’ I had a magic bullet here for ya, were ya? Iffen thass the case, ya might as well skedaddle on home. Even juju tea takes a while ta work.”

“They make tea from Jujyfruits candy?”

“Boy, yer thicker ’n a bayou stump. But dontcha be worryin’ none. We’s fixin’ ta get yer wife back fer ya, lickedy split. Brenda won’t even know the thunderbolt hit her.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Let’s backtrack about a NASCAR mile here, sweetheart.”

“Oooh, thass a good touch, that sweetheart thang. Betcha the wimmen swoon over that.”

Yeah, but not Brenda.
“What show?”

“I already tol’ ya. The Cajun Bad Boys.”

“I’m not Cajun.”

She waved a hand dismissively. “We’ll make ya an honorary Cajun.”

“We
who
?”

Within seconds, he found out
who
as Tante Lulu’s four nephews, and the niece Charmaine, showed up in ten and fifteen minute intervals.

“Hey, Lance.” It was John LeDeux greeting him as he strolled in carrying a mondo size bag of cheese doodles, the size you buy in surplus warehouses. John, better known as Tee-John to his family, had been a member of the Jinx treasure hunting crew but was now a cop in Fontaine, Louisiana. “Guess my aunt roped you in, too.” He grinned as if Lance was the sucker of the month, which he probably was.

“Didja bring Lance’s hope chest?”

“Oh, yeah!” He pointed to a pine box out on the porch.

“A
 . . .
a hope chest? For me?”

“
Oui
. I gives ’em ta all the men before I fixes up their love life. Ya want the ‘L & B’ embroidery on the pillow cases ta be in green or blue?”

“Wait till you see the pot holders she made you out of NASCAR flags,” John told him, not even trying to suppress a chuckle. “And the bride quilt with checkered flags alternating with hearts. And a monogrammed toilet paper holder. And the St. Jude flag to put on your race car.”

Now that last he wouldn’t mind. A racer needed all the help he could get.

“Doan pay no nevermind ta Tee-John. He’ll be gettin’ his hope chest sometime soon.”

“No, no, no!” John was turning a lovely shade of gray that gave Lance immense pleasure.

“How’s the police work going?” he asked.

John shrugged. “Beats pickin’ cotton, or
 . . .”
He cast his aunt a mischievous grin, “
 . . .
or strippin’.”

The old lady smacked her nephew, whom she clearly adored, on his arm. “Doan mind Tee-John,” she told Lance. “This one, bless his heart, thinks the sun comes up ta hear him crow.”

“Doesn’t it?” the young man asked with mock innocence.

The niece Charmaine came next, carrying outdoor Christmas decorations that they were all apparently going to help the old lady put up. Charmaine looked like a Christmas ornament herself, with huge teased black hair, earrings that dangled a bunch of colored bells, red spandex pants, white high heeled cowboy boots, a green silk, long-sleeved t-shirt with the words “Don’t Tangle With me”, and in smaller print “Charmaine’s Beauty Spa.” She was what his friend Easy would call a Hootchie Mama and mean it as a compliment. His daughter Patti, a real girly girl, would love Charmaine.

Luc and Remy LeDeux came next, also carting Christmas decorations and a bushel of okra. What anyone would do with a bushel of okra, he had no idea. Luc was the oldest of the LeDeux brothers, a lawyer. Remy, badly scarred in Desert Storm, was a pilot.

After they shook hands with him and asked a few questions about his latest race—people in the South loved NASCAR—they all sat down at the table. Tante Lulu placed mugs of coffee in front of all of them, along with a platter of fresh-baked beignets, a Louisiana delicacy.

Lance was feeling a mite embarrassed
 . . .
okay, a lot embarrassed. When he’d called Tante Lulu to ask for her help, he didn’t know she would be calling in the troops to share his secret shame. Lance Caslow, celebrity playboy, couldn’t get his wife back on his own.

“Tell us what the problem is, Lance, and we’ll see what we can do to help,” Charmaine advised. “And don’t be blushin’. We’ve all been in the same boat.”

I doubt that.
Taking a deep breath, he began. “I have loved Brenda forever. We grew up together. We married right after high school. We have a little girl together. I thought we would be together always.”

“I hear a great big but in there,” Remy said.

“I screwed up.”

Charmaine and Tante Lulu both glowered at him.

“I didn’t cheat on her,” he protested.

The two women arched their eyebrows.

“I didn’t cheat on her while we were together.”

The men laughed.

“Listen, my friend, I’m a lawyer,” Luc said, “but you don’t need to be a lawyer to know that terminology doesn’t give you the wiggle room you think it does.”

“Yeah, I know. That’s what Brenda said. I’m about ready to give up. This is my last shot. Really, it feels hopeless.”

“What a load of hooey!” Tante Lulu said. “But ya came ta the right place fer hopeless cases.” She squeezed his shoulder and passed him another beignet. “When didja first start havin’ troubles and when did ya get a divorce?” Tante Lulu wanted to know.

“There was trouble almost from the get-go
 . . .
or once I started winning some races. The groupies, the parties, the drinking. But as long as Brenda was with me, we were okay. She was a NASCAR mechanic for my team. But then we had Patti
 . . .
our little girl is seven now
 . . .
and Brenda couldn’t go on the road as much. I guess I let all the attention go to my head. I didn’t actually do anything, but—”

“Sonny, let’s get one thing straight. A man, he can be slicker ’n deer guts on a doorknob, but excuses doan make the gumbo boil. Cheatin’ is cheatin’, whether it be lookin’, or kissin’, or rentin’ a room at the Hidey Hole Hotel. As Doctor Phil would say, ya gotta own the problem.”

Lance’s jaw dropped at Tante Lulu’s little sermon. The rest of them just grinned, probably having heard that sermon a few dozen times.

“I admit, I made mistakes. Big mistakes. Number one, I let myself be photographed with hot women in compromising positions. Number two, I didn’t go home immediately and beg Brenda to forgive me. Instead, I said she was overly jealous. Number three, when we were separated, I got drunk and had a one-night stand with a groupie who sold the story to the National Enquirer. Number four, I let my pride rule way too long. Now Brenda won’t even talk to me.”

“Tsk, tsk, tsk!” Tante Lulu said.

“Here I thought you were gonna say that yer problem was yer needle dick,” John teased.

“Tee-John LeDeux! You got a mouth like a Bourbon Street pimp. I kin still whomp yer fanny,” Tante Lulu scolded. “And it ain’t polite to make fun of a man’s doo-doo.”

John just winked at his aunt.

“That’s okay. Brenda told that needle dick story about my
 . . .
uh, doo-doo
 . . .
for a long time, to get back at me,” Lance explained.

“Did it work?” Remy asked.

“Hell, yes. Try explaining to people that you don’t have a needle dick without dropping your drawers.”

“Men and the size of their you-know-whats!” Charmaine said to Tante Lulu. “If they’d stop worrying about size and stop thinking with their zippers, women would be all over them like white gravy on a warm biscuit.”