Sandra Hill - [Jinx] (27 page)

Hah! Little did they know his aunt.

There was something different about Ronnie. Jake studied her, then Charmaine, then her again. Grinning, he whispered in her ear, “Congratulations, darlin’.”

She blushed and whispered back, “How did you know?”

“Ya have that look, sweetie. Jist like Charmaine.”

Peach and Famosa overheard, and they both shook Jake’s hand.

Meanwhile, his aunt was still blathering on. “I cain’t wait ta call Mary LeBlanc and tell her and the ladies at Our Lady of the Bayou Church. Do ya think there’s any chance we might get Richard Simmons ta come on down and help with the project? Ya know, ‘Sweatin’ to the Oldies’ could be our mornin’ exercise, ’stead of joggin’. Betcha we could get some TV crews down there what with that ol’ Jean Lafitte legend and Richard Simmons. An’ Richard could stay at my cottage. He is so cute.”

What could one say to that?

“Does anyone know where they hide the bourbon? I’m in the mood for an oyster shooter, or five.”

It’s not a party without you, baby . . .

“Where’s Claire?”

“I don’t know. It’s hard to see anyone in this crowd,” Caleb told his brother at the party that night. Actually, he’d been searching for Claire the past half hour, to no avail.

But then, Caleb’s eyes went wide at Jonas’s companion of the evening, who stepped up beside him.

“You remember Laura, dontcha?” Jonas said, his face, neck, and ears pink with embarrassment.

Caleb nodded a greeting. It was the nurse, Laura Jones, but instead of her usual attire, tonight she wore an ankle-length dress with short sleeves and a demure neckline. It was rose-colored with tiny yellow flowers. Her blonde hair was pulled into a knot at the back of her neck. If it wasn’t for the gauzy material of Laura’s dress or the long curly strands that had come loose from the bun and framed her face, he would almost have thought she was Mennonite.

Ah!
Now he understood Jonas’s discomfort. Laura was out for the kill, showing that she would even change her appearance to nab his brother. That speculation was further proven when he noticed her lacing her fingers with Jonas’s and tugging him closer to her side. Jonas made no attempt to pull away.

“Jonas and I would like you and Claire to come for dinner on Wednesday,” Laura said. “I’m teaching his girls how to make a seafood lasagna. Dat and Mam will be there.”

If his eyes had gone wide at her appearance, they went even wider at her use of his parents’ names. “I’d love to, but I’m not sure I’ll still be here then.”

“Caleb! Will ya not even consider my offer? It would be wonderful-goot to have ya be a partner in my landscaping business. Peachey Brothers. We could expand and—”

Caleb put up a halting hand and shook his head. “I appreciate the offer, Jonas, but it’s your business. Not mine.”

Jonas seemed about to argue, then gave up. Squeezing his shoulder, he said in a choked voice, “Ya wouldn’t leave without sayin’ good-bye, wouldja?”

“I’ll probably leave on Monday. Gotta get back to Jinx headquarters in New Jersey. But no, I wouldn’t leave without seeing you first. And Dat and Mam. For one thing, we need to discuss this whole Mennonite conversion thing. Is it for real?”

“Seems so. Dat talked Zeke, Levi, Katie, and Mimi into converting, ’long with their families. But Aaron, Joseph, and Judith’s husband, Isaac Glick, are balkin’.
Ach,
but it’s a wonder so many of our family are goin’ along with this, and, tell the truth, it’s no loss with those three stayin’ behind. Aaron alveese was too big fer his britches. Joseph’s attitude can be blamed on his age, I suppose, and he might come ’round later, ’specially if he thinks he might lose the farm fer being muleheaded. And ya wouldn’t wanna be around Isaac Glick fer long anyhow; he’s got more opinions than God has little green apples. Plus he’s got a gas problem like ya wouldn’t believe.”

“Jonas!” Laura chastised.

“Well, it’s the truth. He breaks wind everywheres. Even durin’ church.”

Caleb had to smile at his brother’s bluntness. He wouldn’t bring it up now, but he could recall a time when an eight-year-old Jonas had deliberately farted in the middle of a three-hour church service, clearing the room like a tornado. He’d been eating baked beans the night before. A lot of baked beans.

Jonas’s eyes, gleaming with humor, connected with his, and he realized that his brother was remembering, too.

“Will Dat and the others continue to live in the same houses?” he asked.

“I ’spect so. The shunnin’ will be harder, but no harder than it’s been fer me. Easier, actually, if all or most of them stick together.”

“Who ever would have thought Dat would bend like this?”

“It’s a wonder, all right.”

“Well, I think it’s great that your family will finally be united again,” Laura said. “A blessing, really.”

They couldn’t argue with that.

“Then there’s Lizzie.” Caleb sighed. “She’s bound and determined to pursue a music career.”

“It’s foolishness, pure and simple, if ya ask me,” Jonas remarked.

“You two do know that Lizzie is a very talented singer, don’t you? She sounds a lot like Carrie Underwood,” Laura said. “Do you really have the right to deny her a chance to pursue her dreams?”

That was the problem. What did you do with an Amish girl with a talent for country music? Should Caleb take her out into the English world and see if she had enough talent and stamina to compete? Should Jonas take her into his Mennonite home, where there were many restrictions but some forms of music were permitted?

The three of them turned toward the small stage where music was being played on a CD and amp system by Lizzie, Brenda, and LeDeux, whoever was in the vicinity at various times. Lizzie’s blonde hair was held off her face by two barrettes and hung down to her waist in back. She wore low-riding jeans and a tiny pink knit top that left about six inches of skin exposed.

“What is that shiny thing on Lizzie’s belly?” Jonas cocked his head to the side, trying to figure it out.

Laura giggled at Jonas’s naivete.

“It’s a belly-button ring,” Caleb said.

“How does it stay on?”

Laura giggled again.

“Her belly button is pierced,” Caleb explained.

“Oh, good Lord! Why would anyone wanna put a hole in their belly button?”

Laura said, “Uh-oh!”

He and Jonas stared at her, Jonas more surprised than him.

“I have a belly button ring,” she disclosed in a small voice.

Caleb had to laugh at the shocked expression on Jonas’s face. That pretty much said how intimate, or not, she and Jonas had been so far.

“But I could let it grow over. The hole, I mean.”

Jonas was still blinking with shock, trying his best not to gape at her belly.

“Hey, at least Laura doesn’t have her tongue pierced,” Caleb teased. Then quickly added, “Do you?”

She shook her head.

“Why would that be better or worse?” Jonas grumbled.

Caleb leaned over and whispered the benefits of a tongue piercing to his innocent brother.

“Oh, you!” Jonas said, not believing what he’d told him.

“Listen, brother, you would be surprised at what some people pierce.” He glanced pointedly at his and then Jonas’s crotch.

“No way!” Jonas declared.

Their conversation was interrupted then by LeDeux’s brother René, who began tuning up an accordion, of all things, preparing to accompany Lizzie on some song. LeDeux had a washboard, which Caleb assumed he was going to play like a Cajun frottoir. Del had a trumpet.

“Ladies and gents,” Tante Lulu said, stepping up to the mike, which squealed loudly before René adjusted it for her. Her hair was curly red tonight, which went just super with her purple spandex dress and matching high heels. Actually, a number of the LeDeux women were wearing the same spandex dress in different colors. They planned to put on some kind of a show.

“We’re here t’night ta celebrate lots of things,” Tante Lulu said, “and helpin’ us is Miss Elizabeth Peachey, the next American Idol.”

The crowd, at least a hundred of them—where did all these people come from?—clapped and hooted their approval.

“First off, we wanna recognize all our soldiers fightin’ in different parts of the world, but ’specially Mark Franklin, who was wounded in Af-ganny-stan.” She pointed to Mark, who was trying to slip inside the house, but the sliding door had been locked by his grandmother. Giving in, he gave a little wave, but he was obviously mortified.

“Lizzie is gonna sing that Lee Greenwood song ‘God Bless the USA.’ Us folks down South know Lee’s songs well. We think Lizzie’ll do him and Mark proud.”

Tante Lulu stepped back and Lizzie stepped forward. These weren’t the usual instruments accompanying this song, but Lizzie’s voice was powerful and poignant in relaying the lyrics about being proud to be an American and not forgetting those who had died for freedom. Every time she came to the stanza, ‘God Bless the USA’, the crowd clapped and sang along with her.

She got a standing ovation at the end. There were more than a few teary eyes, especially Abbie and Lily. He and Jonas just gaped at each other. Their sister really was talented.

Tante Lulu was at the mike now. “We’re also here ta celebrate the reunion of two brothers.”

Oh, great! He’d forgotten about that. Too late to escape.

Jonas stared ahead like a deer caught in the headlights as everyone turned to look at the two of them.

Lizzie took the mike and said, “This is an old song called ‘Brotherly Love’ that was sung by Keith Whitley before he died way too young. It was a duet, with the other part sung by Earl Thomas Conley. Tonight by René LeDeux.” Then she and René proceeded to sing a song whose lyrics hit way too close to home. About a love between two brothers that “time and miles” can’t separate. There were parts of the song that were funny, but mostly sad, concluding that there was something special about brotherly love.

He and Jonas were speechless amid the applause. He reached over and squeezed Jonas’s hand, a silent promise that they would never be apart for long in the future.

Lizzie stepped off the little stage then, and Tante Lulu chuckled into the microphone. “We gots us a special guest tonight ta celebrate Tee-John’s birthday. She come all the way from Hollywood.” They dimmed the lights on the little stage, and for a few moments there were sounds of rustling and stumbling and swearing. Finally, when the lights came back on, LeDeux was sitting on a chair raised high like a throne, and there was a huge cake sitting on the stage in front of them. Del blew out an introductory riff, the top of the cake popped open, and out shot . . . Holy crap! Marilyn Monroe. Well, a really good Marilyn Monroe impersonator. Charmaine LeDeux Lanier, in a red spandex dress and red high heels, a blonde Marilyn Monroe wig, and red lipstick began to sing her classic, breathy version of “Happy Birthday.” The crowd howled with laughter and appreciation, then joined in singing to the grinning Cajun birthday boy.

After that, the music changed back to CDs as the LeDeuxes prepared for some Village People/Motown floor show that they put on periodically. They’d invited Caleb to be the shirtless military guy in their revue, to which he’d replied, “Not in this lifetime!” People went back to eating and drinking and socializing, and Caleb moved through the crowd.

In the end he came to an alarming conclusion. Claire was not here tonight and never had been.

The chicken!

Well, he was in the mood for a little taste of chicken, thank you very much, he decided. It was well past time he stopped being miserable and pathetic and started being happy and pathetic.

He searched in his pocket for his keys and came up with the St. Jude key chain Tante Lulu had given him earlier. He could swear the old guy winked at him and said, “About time!”

Chapter 18

How do I love thee? Let me count the orgasms . . .

By the time Caleb arrived at Claire’s, he was pissed, hurt, scared, and horny.

He was pissed because Claire had never come to the party or bothered to tell him she wasn’t coming. He was hurt for the same reason. The horniness needed no explanation.

And the fear? Shiiit! He could face off with a half-dozen tangos in the middle of a freakin’ Iraq desert without hesitation, but the feelings he was finally beginning to recognize for Claire had him shaking in his shoes. How could he have come to care so much in such a short time? These were life-changing emotions, and he knew for damn sure that he wasn’t going to be able to ride off into the sunset this time with no regrets, which had always been his way.

He opened Claire’s front door, without knocking, and it slammed back against the wall with a thud.

The force of his action surprised him, and it sure as hell surprised Claire, who was sitting, peaceful as could be, in an upholstered chair with a cup of tea on one arm and an opened book on the other. Obviously she wasn’t pissed, hurt, scared, or horny. Carefully, he closed the door, then walked over to the kitchen counter, where he placed a bag of food Tante Lulu had pushed on him.

“Caleb? What are you doing here?”

“The question is, what are
you
doing here?”

“I took a nap and overslept.”

“Liar.”

“Okay, I decided it would be better to stay home.”

“Better for whom?”

“For both of us.”

“Bullshit.”

“Nice talk! Is that food I smell? Yum. I’m hungry.”

“Later,” he grunted out as he toed off first one loafer, then the other.

“Making yourself at home, are you, big boy? Would you like a cup of tea?”

“No, I don’t want any fucking tea,
little girl.
”

“Okaaaay. So, are you still leaving on Monday, Mr. Grumpy?”

Mr. Grumpy? You have no idea.
“Later,” he repeated. “We’ll discuss it later.”

“Who named you God to make all the rules?”

Sticks and stones, baby. Sticks and stones.
But then he noticed more boxes lining the room, and his heart rate accelerated like a motorcycle.
Brmmmm, brmmmm, brmmmm!
“When are you moving?”

“Later,” she said with a grin.

Don’t lose your cool, Peachey. Don’t say what you’re really thinking. You gotta ease into a thing like this.
Undoing his belt, he tugged his polo shirt out of his pants and yanked it over his head, tossing it behind him.

“What . . . What are you doing?” she said, standing. Unfortunately, or fortunately, the irritation in her voice was overruled by her eyes, which appeared fascinated by the movement of his hands undoing his zipper.

He slowed down, just so she could enjoy the show. Then he shrugged off his khakis and briefs all in one swoop. “What am I doing? I’m doing what I should have done days ago. Knocking down that friggin’ wall you’ve put up.”

She made a little squeaking sound as she backed away from him.

“Claire, you have no reason to be afraid of me. I’ll leave if you want me to, but I’ve gotta tell you, my brain is really screwed up right now.”
And my heart.
“I need you.”

She didn’t speak, and he realized that she’d squeaked not out of fear but for another reason. Her eyes were glued to a part of his anatomy that was standing out like a flagpole. He glanced down, did a double take, and might have made a squeaking sound himself.
Oh, good Lord! I look like a male porno star. I don’t think I’ve ever been this big. It’s almost embarrassing. Almost.

He advanced on her. For every step backward she took, he took two forward. Soon she was trapped between the door and his world-class blue steeler.

She was wearing a Garfield nightshirt and nothing else. But not for long. Once she was as naked as he was, he said, “About that wall.”

“I’m probably going to regret this later, but damn the wall.” She leaped upward, latching her arms around his shoulders and her legs around his waist, her face buried in his neck.

His eyes probably rolled back in his head. Blue was practically doing the rumba. And then, before he had a chance to say Holy crap! or unroll his eyes or tell Blue to behave, Claire wiggled her ass lower and somehow managed to ease herself down to just the right spot. Then, oh, God,
bam,
she moved herself onto him. All. The. Way.

His knees turned to rubber, but he immediately caught himself by putting his hands under her buns and bracing her back against the door. “Cute trick, honey, but this is my show.”

“Oh, yeah?” She did some incredibly talented thing with the inner muscles of her body.

And his knees did in fact buckle. He sank to the floor, taking her with him, but somehow she managed to be on top. Was she punishing him, or rewarding him? There was a fine line here that he wasn’t about to question.

She rode him like a regular cowgirl then. Totally uninhibited.
God bless Dale Evans and Annie Oakley and rodeos and whatever or whoever taught women how to do this.
Even when she came around him several times, she didn’t stop.

She was killing him. She was killing herself. Enough!

Rolling them both over, he held her in place with his cock imbedded in her, unmoving, and his arms braced on either side of her head. He leaned down and brushed his lips across hers. “Does this mean you missed me?”

Her eyelashes fluttered—she was still in a haze of arousal, which was very, very flattering to his ego. “Yes, I missed you. Dammit.”

He smiled.

“Did you miss me?”

How could she ask? “Baby, did you happen to notice the hard-on I carted in here? Did you notice I’m still inside you doing the happy dance? Damn straight I missed you.”

Then he showed her with the stamina of a Navy SEAL—he knew all those years of PT would pay off someday—and the patience of an Amishman—
Patience makes perfect, Dat used to say
—and a skill perfected over the years—
with way too many women
—just how much he missed her. He was pretty sure he succeeded, if her screaming out his name at the end was any indication. And him? He was cooler. He just murmured her name. Over and over and over.

But she didn’t say she loved him. And surprisingly, Caleb was disappointed. How pitiful was that?

He was not James Brown, he was better . . .

Caleb was an amazing sex machine.

Claire would have been impressed if it weren’t apparent that he acted out of desperation of some kind.

He’d fucked her against the wall. He’d fucked her down by the river, where they’d been bitten by a thousand mosquitoes. He’d fucked her in her bathtub under scented bubbles followed by their slathering calamine over each other to control the itching. He’d fucked her again when he awakened her in the middle of the night. And yes,
fuck
was precisely the word he would use, crude and to the point, avoiding at all costs the word
love.

He’d probably do it again as morning light peeped through her shades if she wasn’t pretending to be asleep. Really, what was he trying to prove?

“What? What did you say?” he said, pausing as he zipped up his khakis and walked over to the bed, barefooted and bare-chested. The poster boy for sex on the hoof.

She hadn’t meant to speak her thoughts, but what the hell? She sat up in bed against the pillows, pulling the sheet up to cover her. She winced slightly at the delicious ache between her legs and noted the bruise marks on her body and his, as well. In fact, she was pretty sure those were her teeth marks on his shoulder. “What’s going on, Caleb? What are you trying to prove?”

He sat down on the edge of the bed and reached for the sheet that covered her. “I thought you liked what we did.”

She slapped his hand away. “You know I did.”

Cocking his head to the side, he asked, “What’s the problem?”

“That’s what I’m asking you. What are you trying to prove? If you fuck me enough times, do you figure I won’t ask you any questions about when you’re leaving or when you’ll come back, if ever? If you fuck me well enough, do you figure that will be enough to satisfy me, that I won’t want, God forbid, commitment from you? If you fuck me—”

“Stop using that word.” He pressed his fingertips against her mouth, then replaced them with his lips in a soft kiss. “Yeah, I know I use that word. Too often. But
you
demean what I did . . . what we did . . . by saying it that way. We made love. Whatever else you believe, whatever memories we created here last night, please think of it as making love.”

Memories? That means he’s leaving. I knew he was leaving. Why am I acting like such a fool? Oh, God!
She blinked rapidly to prevent tears from welling in her eyes. They were the exact words she wanted to hear, about making love, not lust, except for the memories part, and, well, today was Sunday, and he would be leaving tomorrow.
Don’t push him, Claire. Don’t tell him you love him. Don’t ask him if he loves you.

“Hurry up and get dressed. I’ll make coffee and warm up those beignets Tante Lulu packed up for us. Do you have a thermos and a basket so we can take them with us? I’d like to go for a run first, maybe along that bike trail that abuts the Juniata over by the flea market. If you don’t mind. We could eat after that, sort of a picnic along the river, then head out. What do you think?”

She thought something was really out of whack in this picture. The usually quiet—you could say taciturn—Caleb was rambling on like . . . like Tante Lulu. She tried to register all that he’d said. Okay, he’d wanted to make love to her all night, and now he wanted her dressed and out of bed. To run, eat, “head out.” What was up? “Where are we going?”

“Not camping in a wigwam, that’s for damn sure. I’ve had enough mosquitos to last me a lifetime.”

Now he teased?
But he’s not smiling.

And neither was she. “Caleb?” she insisted, getting out of bed with the sheet wrapped around her toga-style. With hysterical irrelevance, she mused over how amazing it was that even the most sophisticated women were afflicted with morning-after modesty. Not so men. Not so Caleb, who looked sexy and buff with his khakis unbuttoned and riding low on his hips.

He leaned against the door frame, arms folded. The pose was casual, but his jaw was tight and his body tense. He appeared to be bracing himself for something, like a soldier about to face gunfire. Then he shot the salvo heard ’round the world. Her world anyway.

“It’s about time I saw your bloody farm, baby.”

I love you, baby, but I still don’t want no stinkin’ cows . . .

Two hours later, Caleb had no choice. He’d procrastinated with a long run, a long breakfast, and a short nooner, except it wasn’t yet noon. Claire was beginning to stare at him as if he had a few screws loose . . . which he did. Now it was time to face the firing squad . . . uh, the farm.

He hung a left in Alexandria at the newly painted sign “Hope Farm” and drove white-knuckled up the lane. Ahead was her farmhouse. “Who owns the crops?” he asked, pointing to the neat rows of corn on the left and oats on the right.

“The farmer on the adjacent property. Harald Gorbitz.”

“So you don’t plan to farm?”

“Not at first.”

That doesn’t sound good. I hear an “eventually” in there.
“Eventually?”

“It depends. I couldn’t do it on my own.”

Definitely not good.

“I do want a big garden, though. Tomatoes, snow peas, string beans, onions, beets, turnips, peppers, watermelons, pumpkins . . . everything. And a huge flower garden, of course.”

Is that all?
The expression on her face was practically beatific, while his heart dropped with each plant she mentioned.

“And I’ll want a small orchard, and berry patches, too. In the summer I was thinking about running day camps for kids to teach them about the Lenni Lenape Indians. Maybe later I might get into herb gardening. Maybe go commercial at some point.”

It’s a farm. F. A. R. M. You can talk day camp and herbs all you want, but it’s still gonna be a farm.
“How big did you say this place was?”

“Only thirty acres, but that’s big enough for me.”

I would hope so.

He stopped the car next to a stone farmhouse. It matched the stone bank barn built against a low hill. Behind the house he could see the Frankstown branch of the Juniata flowing through her property. On the banks were a half-dozen cows slurping up the water.
Cows!

“They’re not my cows.”

But you’ll probably get some. Is that a rash on my arm? Betcha I’m allergic to farms.

They both got out of the car, and she showed him around. Okay, he had to admit it was a nice place. The quaint house, more like an English cottage, had a modern kitchen and bathrooms. There was even a sound system built into the living room walls and a large stone fireplace. The barn was clean and sturdy. The place didn’t smell too bad. It didn’t feel exactly like his Amish home, which had plagued his nightmares for years.

Standing in the middle of the living room, he had a sudden vision of himself here. A roaring fire, Claire on her computer or in the kitchen stirring up something delicious-smelling, and him lying on the floor playing with two kids, a boy and a girl. Outside the sounds of a chicken cock-a-doodling, a cow lowing. He closed his eyes on the pain in his heart. It was a scenario he’d avoided his whole life. And yet . . . and yet . . .

“What do you think?” Claire asked, breaking into his reverie.

He gulped several times before he could speak. “I’m never going to be a farmer, Claire.”

That took her by surprise and raised her hackles about a foot. “Who asked you to? Good grief, Caleb, you look like you’re having heart palpitations just being here on a farm.”

I’m having palpitations, all right, but not because of the farm.
He decided to ignore her sarcasm. “But I think I might be able to live here. Have it be my home base. That third bedroom upstairs would make a good office for me. I assume you’d want to use the downstairs bedroom for your office.”