The Red-Hot Cajun (15 page)

“I don’t see why Rend can’t be more sensible, like his father. Now there’s a man who knows which side his bread is buttered on,” her grandmother said, then chuckled. “The oily side.”

“Grandma!” Valerie exclaimed, knowing full well even before her grandmother bristled that she hated being called that. She preferred to be called Dixie. “That Valcour LeDeux is an alcoholic son of a bitch.”

“Valerie Breaux!” her mother said in her sternest Joan Crawford voice.

“Well, it’s true. Everyone in Houma knows what he is, how he treated his kids when they were young, how he sold out his family lands to the oil company... how—”

“Might I remind you, young lady,” her grandmother interrupted, “that your family is aligned with the oil interests. Me, in particular.”

“My Cypress Oil stocks helped fund your very expensive college education,” her mother pointed out.

“I beg to differ. I had a trust fund left to me by great-grandmother Breaux that should have more than covered my education. Last time I checked, there were no oil stocks in my portfolio,” she argued, which was a pointless exercise. Her mother never listened to her.

Armand put his face in his hands, then threw his hands up in dismay in a very theatrical manner.

“Ladies, ladies, ladies! Why am I here? If we are not going to discuss a lawsuit against Bayou Unite and its separate parties, I may as well go to my club for lunch.”

“I am not filing a lawsuit, Armand,” Valerie said in as firm a tone as she could manage. “Maybe later, but not right now.”

“Why?” her two aunts asked at the same time.

“Because I need more facts.”

“About what?” Her grandmother appeared genuinely interested and puzzled.

“Everything. The project Bayou Unite has in mind. Why they targeted me. Whether I do in fact have a job at Trial TV. What my legal alternatives are. Everything.”

“You haven’t decided anything for sure then?” her grandmother asked, hopefully.

“No.”

Her mother narrowed her eyes at her again. “That old hag Louise Rivard implied that there’s something going on between you and Rene LeDeux. Please tell me that isn’t true.”

“Define ‘something going on.’“ Almost immediately, she realized her mistake. It never paid to give her mother any opening.

“I swear, Valerie, you are going to be the ruin of me.”

Once again, why is it always about you, Mother?

“She means,” Aunt Margo interpreted for her mother, “have you fallen in love with that trailer park stud?”

Valerie laughed and reminded herself to repeat that back to Rene when—if—she saw him again. “I can say without question that Rene LeDeux is not in love with me. And I am not in love with him.”
In lust,
maybe, but not love.

She felt a tight constriction in her chest, just thinking about Rene LeDeux being in love with her. Not that it would ever happen. But what if? And then the oddest thing happened. She could swear she heard a voice in her head say,
You must give love to receive it.
What did that mean? Her conscience, or some celestial being was telling her to love Rene?

Before she had a chance to bite her tongue, Valerie informed them all, “I need to get myself a St. Jude statue.”

Five jaws dropped in union.

And the voice in her head gave a joyous,
Yeeeessss!

Those low-down Cajun blues

He was lonesome.

How pitiful was that?

Next he would be listening to old Hank Williams songs on the radio and crying in his beer. Not that he had any beer left. Or that he was actually crying.

Rene’ was a man who relished his privacy. He could spend weeks in the bayou wilds without seeing another human being and be happy. Too much time spent in the city and he was climbing the walls. He liked people, but he didn’t mind being alone.

Until now.

The worst part was, now that he was all alone, all he thought about was sex and Valerie Breaux.
Two
years
had become like a blinkin’ neon sign in his mind. He wanted—no,
needed
to be the guy who broke her fast.

Why he’d come to all these conclusions now, and not while she was still here, he had no idea. Probably a cruel jest of St. Jude’s, who kept tsk-tsk-tsking in his head.

Valerie Breaux was screwing up his friggin’ life, big-time.

Something needed to be done.

He picked up his satellite phone, hit automatic dial, and said, “Remy, get your ass out here today. I need to raise some major hell in Houma.”

Don’t go home again: what Thomas Wolfe shoulda said.

Three days back home with her mother and Valerie was ready to strangle someone.

It had been a mistake to come back here to Houma, even before her “kidnapping,” she realized now. If she’d been hoping for a haven where she could rest and reflect on her life after the firing, forget about it.

There were some problems that did not go away with time... like her relationship with her mother.

Years ago, after law school, Valerie had spent some time in therapy trying to resolve her bitter feelings about her childhood. The result had been that the psychiatrist had recommended she just put the past behind her and move on. Easier said than done.

The news media was as bad as her family. They were chomping at the bit to run some kind of expose.

Thus far, she’d been able to fudge, giving them no definitive story on her brief foray into the bayou. Why she didn’t just tell all, she wasn’t sure. Fish or cut bait, one exasperated journalist had advised when she’d evaded yet another question of his. “Soon,” she’d promised.

Today was Friday. Tomorrow afternoon she would be flying back to New York for a Monday morning meeting with Mr Goodman. That was another area where she couldn’t seem to make a decision. Returning to Trial TV in her old capacity as an analyst on their popular show
Trial of the Week
seemed untenable now. How could she work with a prick like Elton after what he’d done, no matter how he tried his revisionist history of claiming she’d misunderstood her firing? Yeah, right. “Don’t let the door slam after you, Valerie.” Hard to misunderstand that.

Another area of concern for her was Rene LeDeux. She couldn’t stop thinking about the rogue. While she’d been with him, he’d been nothing but an annoyance to her, except for that last night when aliens had taken over her brain. But now... Lordy, Lordy, he was on her mind constantly. She wanted to make love with him, really make love with him. She wanted it so bad that she dreamed about it. One hot, wild night of sex, that’s all she wanted. What a ridiculous fantasy! Good thing he wasn’t around for her to act on it.

So now she was strolling the streets of Houma, biding her time till she could leave tomorrow. Probably for good. Probably for the best.

Houma, the parish seat of Terrebonne Parish and the de facto capital of deep bayou country, was a rather small town with a population under fifty thousand, but very unique. It was thirty-five miles north of the seacoast and laced with bayous. In fact, it was called the “Venice of America.” There were antebellum mansions built with sugarcane money, next door to modern mansions built with oil money. A mixture of old and new.

She decided to go into a bookstore and browse, as much to look over the books as to escape the continuing heat wave that had hit Southern Louisiana this summer. It was always hot in the South, but this year was the hottest in history. If you didn’t wear a hat, even your scalp got sunburned.

To her surprise she found herself drawn to a section on Louisiana bayous. She picked up the Tidwell book on the dying wetlands and a trade paperback copy of
Coast 2050: Toward a Sustainable
Louisiana,
the 1999 proposal for reclaiming the bayou ecosystem that Rene had mentioned. Added to her pile were
Shantyboat on the Bayou,
a couple of Kate Chopin novels, and several coffeetable picture books on the bayou. When she was standing at the checkout, she ran into Sylvie Breaux, who had an armload of children’s books.

They hugged warmly, and after they’d both paid for their purchases, stood outside in the sweltering heat.

“Have you had lunch?” Sylvie asked.

She shook her head, and they both headed next door to a small restaurant. She ordered an oyster po’boy, dressed, which meant all the trimmings—she was going on a strict diet once she returned to Manhattan—and Sylvie opted for crawfish etouffee with warm French bread. Both of them ordered iced sweet tea.

Sylvie was several years older than she and had three children, but she looked wonderful. She practically glowed with happiness. Other than the happy glow, they probably resembled each other; both had the dark Creole hair and eyes, the straight Breaux nose, and average figures. Neither of them could pass for anorexic.

“You seem very happy, Sylv.”

“I am. You have no idea—” She seemed choked up, but then she continued. “I love Luc and our life together. I never dreamed I could be this happy.”

“With a LeDeux yet?” She grinned at Sylvie.

“Ahhh! The family has been talking.”

“Nonstop.”

“You used to be so shy. It is hard to picture you with a guy with Luc’s reputation.”

“I would be offended if I didn’t know how well-earned that reputation was. You wouldn’t believe what he did to me yesterday. We were at the furniture outlet in Lafayette looking for a new bedroom set. He told the clerk we were looking for a bed with stirrups so he could land in the saddle a lot quicker. I thought the saleslady was going to swallow her teeth.”

Valerie laughed, picturing the scene. “It isn’t hard to imagine Luc doing that. But shy Sylvie Breaux? I would imagine you running out of the store in tears.”

“I’ve changed. I told the clerk I preferred one that vibrates.”

“Well, of course,” she said, tongue firmly in place, “a woman and her best friend, a vibrator.”

“How about you, Val? Are you happy?”

She shrugged. “I’m in a state of limbo these days. I’m going back to the city tomorrow. After that, things should be more clear.”

“Are you going to file charges?” Sylvie didn’t beat around the bush. “Everyone is surprised it hasn’t happened already. Luc has already contacted a bail bondsman.”

“I don’t know if I’ll go to the police or the feds, since it was a kidnapping. Probably not, since I’ve delayed this long.”

“You do know that Tante Lulu is planning a wedding?”

“Nooooo.” She shouldn’t ask, but
she did. “For whom?”

Sylvie just grinned.

“Is she nuts?”

“Probably.”

“How is Rene?” she blurted out. She’d promised herself not to ask.

“He’s okay. Kind of quiet since he got back yesterday. He’s staying in Remy’s houseboat while he’s in town.”

Unbidden, she saw an image of herself and Rend engaging in wild monkey sex on a houseboat.
I
am
absolutely pathetic.

“He and his old band, The Swamp Rats, are playing at Swampy’s Tavern tonight. Luc and I are going, along with Remy and Rachel, and Charmaine and Rusty. Why don’t you join us?”

“Oh, I don’t think so. As I said, I’m leaving tomorrow for New York, and I have lots of packing to do.”

Sylvie cocked her head to the side and folded her arms over her chest. She wasn’t buying her excuses, not one bit. “Are you afraid to see him?”

“Of course not.”
Petrified!

“Will you think about it?”

“I’ll think about it.”
That’s all I’ll think about now. Darn it!

CHAPTER NINE

Dumb men talking dumb

Rene had been raising hell for two days, ever since he’d arrived back in Houma—drinking, jamming, playing all night bourre, a Cajun card game, but he was still practically climbing the walls with frustration.

Because, in all his hell-raising, women were significantly and oddly missing.

“You should just go get laid,” his brother Luc advised him backstage at Swampy’s Tavern where he was preparing to perform a second set. The bar was overflowing, even more than the usual Friday night crowd.

Has he heard about the two years? Nah, he couldn’t have. He’s just reading my pathetic mind.

“That’s your sage advice? Get my ashes hauled and everything will be just fine and dandy.”
Not a bad
idea, actually. Too bad the only one I’d want handling my ash is verboten right now.

“It always worked for me. Still does.” Luc waggled his eyebrows at him. “If you ask me—”

Thirty-five years old, and I still need help from my big brother? I. . . don’t. . . think . . . so.
“Butt out, big brother.”