A Dixie Christmas (19 page)

“The big question is: does Brenda still love you?” The old lady might act a bit ditzy, but she knew how to get at the heart of things.

“Yes,” he said without hesitation. “She just doesn’t like me very much.”

Two hours later—hope chest stowed in his back seat, St. Jude statue in his pocket, and a Tupperware container of gumbo in the trunk—Lance left, shaking his head with dismay. He’d just agreed to the most outlandish plan to get Brenda back.

The NASCAR Bad Boy had officially become a Cajun Bad Boy.

And then he threw out the hook . . .

Brenda studied the card that had come in the mail today, addressed to Brenda and Patti Caslow. It was a formal invitation on heavy cream parchment with a holly border.

You are cordially invited to

A CAJUN CHRISTMAS DINNER REVUE

at

The Southern Louisiana Civic Center

honoring

NASCAR DRIVER LANCE CASLOW

Entertainment by The Cajun Bad Boys

Proceeds to benefit Our Lady of the Bayou Homeless Shelter

RSVP: Louise Rivard, [email protected]

“Louise Rivard,” she murmured. “That’s Tante Lulu. What would Lance have to do with Tante Lulu?”

Her ex-husband was involved in lots of charity events, lending his name to good causes. She was about to pitch this one in the circular file when Patti came into the room. She was all dolled up for a slumber party to be held at her friend Carolyn’s tonight.

Good Lord! Are those fishnet stockings she has on under that very short skirt? No, just tights made to look like fishnet. Whew!
Patti had long blonde hair, the curls tamed into a series of beaded braids framing her face. Dangly Santa earrings hung from her pierced ears. She had rings on almost all her fingers. On top she wore a black glittery shirt with sequined letters saying, “NASCAR Babe,” an ill-thought-out gift for a seven-year-old girl from her Daddy. She had her own unique style, you had to give her that.

“Is that the invitation? Yippee!” Patti squealed, taking the card out of Brenda’s hand and dancing around their small kitchen. “Can we go, Mommy? Please. This is a special honor for Daddy, and we hardly ever go to things for Daddy. Please, please, please.”

“Oh, I don’t know, honey. It’s in Louisiana, and—”

“Dad would send us plane tickets.”

“And it’s a school night.”

Patti put both hands on her tiny hips. “It’s the Saturday before Christmas, Mom. Does Christmas vacation ring a bell?”

“Don’t be smart with me, young lady.”

“Sorry.” The kid had tears in her eyes, whether for fear that her mother would say no, or the harsh tone, she wasn’t sure. “But I wanna be there for Dad. Maybe I could go myself.” Her bottom lip quivered, like it always did when she was being brave, but scared silly.

“I am not putting you on a plane by yourself.”

Patti looked both relieved and upset.

“How come you know so much about this event? Has your Dad been prompting you to beg me to go?”

“Actually, no. Dad never mentioned it. Probably because you always say no anyhow, no matter what it is, if it involves him.”

Am I really that unbending?

“It was Tante Lulu who tol’ me ’bout it.”

“Huh? Since when do you know Tante Lulu?”

“I met her at the wedding, Mom. Geesh! Dontcha remember?”

“Of course I remember, but I’m surprised that you do.” On the other hand, the Cajun lady would be hard to forget.

“She called here one day when you were working down at the Jinx office.”

“And you forgot to tell me?”

“I figured you’d say no anyhow. Like you always do.”

“That is not true.”

“They were scheduling the event and wanted to pick a time when I would be able to attend. See, it’s important that I go.”

“I would only have a week to diet myself into my Christmas dress,” she mused aloud.

“You could buy a new one, in a bigger size.”

“Bite your tongue, girl. Wonder if I should try the grapefruit or the sauerkraut diet this time.”

It was an indication of how badly Patti wanted to attend that she didn’t even groan over the diet fare. “Can I go?” she asked in a small voice.

“Well, if you go, I go.”

Brenda was pretty sure she saw a crafty gleam of satisfaction in her daughter’s eyes. Had she just been manipulated, Lance Caslow style?

Chapter Three

Can NASCAR drivers shimmy? . . .

Lance was more nervous than he’d ever been at the Daytona when he waited for the loudspeaker to announce, “Gentlemen, start your engines.” The jitters never went away. But this was far worse.

“I am not taking my shirt off,” he told the LeDeux men backstage as they prepared for the upcoming Cajun Bad Boys show. “NASCAR drivers do not wear jackets without their shirts on. And I for sure am not wearing those tight stripper pants.”

“What, you think cops go around bare-chested as they nab bad guys?” John LeDeux wore the bottom half of a police uniform, cop hat on his head at a jaunty angle, and carried a billy club. Lance was one hundred per cent heterosexual, but he had to admit the rogue did look hot.

“And me, do you really think I go into court wearing a suit with no shirt underneath?” Luc LeDeux just grinned at him, looking rakishly handsome in a dark blue pin-striped Boss suit which exposed a black, hairy chest.

René, an environmentalist/teacher, wore only a vest and his
frottoir
, a washboard. He was a part-time musician, playing with the Swamp Rats, which was on stage right now. René was the instigator of these shows. He’s the one who encouraged them to do outrageous things, things Lance didn’t want to think about.

“Hey, at least they aren’t tryin’ ta get ya to dance around a fireman’s pole,” Remy added. He was wearing a bombers jacket, minus a shirt.

“You danced around a fireman’s pole?”

“Hell, no, but they tried. Instead I wore dress whites like a freakin’ Richard Gere from ‘An Officer and a Gentleman.”

“Holy crap!” he said.

“Actually, they brought out the fireman’s pole for an earlier Cajun Bad Boys event. Was it when Sylvie wouldn’t talk ta you, Luc?”

“Yep,” Luc replied with absolutely no embarrassment.

The two brothers grinned at each other.

“The best thing is that after a performance our women are all turned on,” Remy told Lance. “Ain’t that right, Luc? There’ll be hot times on the bayou tonight.”

“Oh, that is just great. Why don’tcha brag when there are single fellas like me around?” This was John speaking.

“Hah! Like you’d have any trouble lining up a bootie call!” Remy said.

These guys were nuts, and not just them. They’d enlisted the help of a New Orleans Saints football player in a helmet, carrying a football, wearing tight, white scrimmage pants, sans underwear and jersey. Then there was The Swamp Cowboy
 . . .
Charmaine’s scowling husband, Rusty, who was no more happy to be in this nutcase show than he was. There was also a carpenter with tool belt. And a Richard Simmons lookalike; that was Lance’s contribution, to please Tante Lulu. The real Richard told Lance’s agent that he would have come, but he had a prior engagement with a half-ton lady in crisis.

Anyhow, this was the LeDeux’s crazy, half-assed idea of the Village People. It was a show they put on periodically, which was very popular if the crowd outside, five hundred people strong, paying a hundred dollars a pop, was any indication.

The LeDeux women were no better, dressed in bright colored, thigh-high spandex dresses and stiletto heels, even Tante Lulu.

“I’m going for a walk,” he said.

“Don’t go too far. We’ll be on in a half hour
 . . .
or forty-five minutes,” John told him.

“You sure yer comin’ back?” Luc inquired.

Good question. He sure didn’t feel like it, but then he decided he had to. This was his last shot, and he had to give it his all. “I’ll be here,” he promised.

Unfortunately, John got the last shot in when he asked him, “Hey, Lance, I sure hope you know how to shimmy.”

Sucking it in, physically and mentally . . .

Brenda stood near the entrance of the Cajun Christmas event, sipping at her second glass of white wine.

She could barely breathe, but she wasn’t sure if it was because she’d eaten so much food after practically starving herself this past week or if she was afraid to relax for fear of succumbing to Lance’s formidable charms. Not that she’d seen the charmer today. Nope, she was avoiding him like a Krispy Kreme donut.

But really, she
was
having a good time. The company was great. All of the LeDeux family had shown up. In fact, there were at least five hundred people here, who had paid one hundred dollars for the charitable cause, just to honor Lance. And to see the LeDeuxs perform, an event not to be missed here on the bayou, she’d been told.

And the food
 . . .
oh, my goodness, the food! On the buffet tables arrayed around the huge banquet room there were Gumbo Ya Ya, red beans and rice, Tipsy Chicken, Jambalaya, gator stew, Crawfish Etouffée, Redfish Court Bouillon, blackened catfish fingers, and Limping Susan, an okra and rice dish, not to mention beaten biscuits dripping with butter. And that was just the entrees. For dessert there were sinfully sweet pralines, bread pudding with whiskey sauce, King Cake, and Tante Lulu’s famous Peachy Praline Cobbler Cake. Dieter’s heaven, to be sure.

“Sugar, you look hot,” Charmaine said, coming up to her.

“Thanks,” Brenda said. And she did look hot, as well she should after having spent three hundred dollars on this little red silk slip dress that left her black hose encased legs exposed up to mid-thigh, and her shoulders and chest risking exposure if not for the two thin rhinestone straps. On her feet were red high heels, also with rhinestone straps. Red shoes! A first for Brenda. Her blonde curls had been tamed and upswept, except for a few escaping tendrils. She wore no jewelry except for cheap rhinestone chandelier earrings and the small diamond heart on a gold chain that Lance had given her for a wedding gift eons ago. It was worth practically nothing compared to the more expensive jewelry he’d gifted her over the years, mostly due to guilt. She’d been determined to shine here tonight at her first Lance event in years. “I’m afraid to breathe, or my stomach will pop out.”

“I know what you mean.” Charmaine laughed. “We’ve been wearing these spandex dresses for the past five years, and the fabric has to stretch just a little bit more over my hips and butt these days.”

Brenda couldn’t see where, even with Charmaine being about five months pregnant. All the LeDeux women were going to perform some kind of Motown song and dance number soon, and they were dressed in identical spandex dresses and high heels of different colors. Charmaine filled hers very nicely, thank you very much. She was built like a tall slim beauty queen, which she had been at one time. Miss Louisiana.

Tante Lulu walked up to them then. And, Lordy, Lordy, she was wearing a spandex dress, too. Neon pink with matching pink high heels, though not as high as Charmaine’s. And her short curly hair was dyed pink today, too. She looked like a ball of cotton candy. “Didja finish that wine already, Brenda. Lemme go get ya another glass.”

“No, no, no,” she said, setting her empty wine glass on a nearby empty table. “I’m not much of a drinker, and I’m already feeling a little woozy. I want to be alert for your program.”

“Ooooh, I have a good idea,” Charmaine cooed. “What we all need is an oyster shooter
 . . .
except mine will have to be minus the booze.”

“Charmaine, yer a genius,” Tante Lulu concurred. A remarkable statement. “Does ya like oysters, Brenda?”

“Yes, but I’ve had enough to eat.”

“Sweetie, oyster shooters have nothing to do with food.”