After handing Fleur off to Tante Lulu and Charmaine, Aaron headed directly for his lawyer’s office in downtown Houma.
He was still grinning over the stunned expression on Fleur’s face as she’d crawled into the back seat of Lillian, the name given to the old lady’s big honking pale purple 1960s convertible. Everyone on the bayou recognized the vehicle when it came barreling (or crawling) down the highway, especially when the notorious Tante Lulu could be seen propped up on several pillows behind the steering wheel.
“Hey, Aaron, glad you could stop by,” Luc said when he entered the office, which was located on the ground floor of an old Victorian-style building. Luc’s secretary, Mildred Guidry, who was on the phone, had waved him through.
“Any news?” Aaron asked.
“I have some meetings set up for next week. Most important, with the FAA for Wednesday at eleven a.m. in their Nawleans office. They want you to bring a list of every flight you’ve taken in the past five years, whether on your own, for Remy’s company, or for the company you owned back in Alaska.”
“Easy enough to get the Alaska records. Aunt Mel put those in storage. She’s here at the plantation waiting for the twins to be born, but I can ask a friend to go into the unit to find them.”
Aunt Mel was Melanie Yutu. She’d been his mother’s longtime partner, as in gay couple, and his business partner, as well, in Alaska Air Shipping.
“Great. It’s always good to bury them in paperwork. To some of these desk jockeys, paper is still king.”
“And Remy keeps meticulous files. So, I know those will be easily accessible, too. On computer. Hell, I can print those out, too, if necessary.”
Remy’s claim to fame, according to women of the bayou, anyhow, was his exceedingly good looks. His shame (in his eyes, only) was that he’d been badly burned in an explosion during Desert Storm when he’d been flying Chinooks over enemy territory. The burn scars covered one side of his body only, head to toe. People who knew him hardly noticed, but Remy was self-conscious, even after all this time.
Aaron had been in the Air Force, too, but a few years later than his half brother, being quite a bit younger. Aaron had been working for Remy the past couple years, until he could decide what he wanted to do, exactly. Unfortunately, or fortunately, Aaron had been distracted from those goals this past year by his outside activities with the Street Judes.
“Is Remy still pissed at you?” Luc asked, calling him back from his rambling thoughts.
“Not so much since I explained the situation. He was more upset that I didn’t tell him ahead of time so he could help. And, actually, his main concern these days is Rachel and their upcoming new baby.”
“Pff! Don’t I know it? Sylvie is waddling around like an oversize duck with all her excess weight, alternately cursing me, the doctor who did my vasectomy, and Tante Lulu.”
Aaron couldn’t help but smile. All the LeDeux men had become suddenly virile about eight months ago when Tante Lulu had put a curse on them all. Well, not a curse because, of course, a baby could never be a curse, but a St. Jude wish of hers. Everyone on the bayou—hell, everyone in Louisiana—knew that St. Jude, the patron of hopeless cases, was Tante Lulu’s favorite saint. Supposedly, she’d been praying one day and happened to mention to the saint, “Wouldn’t it be nice if there were more babies in the family?” And, voilà! Mass pregnancies. A classic case of be careful what you wish for.
The odd thing was, everyone thought the “curse” had worked last summer. But then it turned out the next month that the LeDeux women weren’t pregnant, after all. The following month they were. Next month they weren’t. By Christmas, though, it was a done deal. Tante Lulu claimed it was Saint Jude having a bit of fun with them. Everyone blamed her.
“Speaking of Tante Lulu, I saw her a little while ago. She came to the airport with Charmaine to pick up Fleur.”
“Speaking of which,” Luc began, “who is this girl that Tante Lulu is taking in? I don’t like the idea of some stranger just moving in.”
“First of all, Fleur Gaudet is a woman, not a girl. About thirty years old, I would guess. And—”
Luc raised his brows at that. “A thirty-year-old novice nun?”
“Not anymore.”
“That’s another thing. Kicked out of the nunnery? For what?”
“She was never a nun, exactly. More like an aspiring nun. And she wasn’t exactly kicked out. She’s just taking a break.” A permanent one, if I have any say in the matter.
“‘A shady lady, bless her heart, who’s not shady anymore.’ That’s how Tante Lulu described her. You can see why I have questions. I don’t want this person turning my aunt’s cottage into a cathouse.”
Aaron burst out laughing. Their “aunt” did have a way with words. And, in fact, Louise Rivard wasn’t really an aunt to any of them. A great-aunt or something to Luc, Remy, and René through her great-niece Adèle, their mother, but more like an honorary aunt to the rest of them: him and Dan, John, Charmaine, Simone, and a whole slew of other LeDeuxs. The common element being their horndog father, Valcour LeDeux.
“Don’t worry about Fleur turning Tante Lulu’s cottage into a brothel. She hates men.” Me, in particular. But not for long, if I have any say in the matter. “I’m not sure about Tante Lulu’s ‘shady lady’ reference, anyhow. Maybe by ‘shady’ she’s referring to one of the Judes/Magdas missions that took place in a strip joint. No, I am not going to elaborate.”
Luc didn’t look convinced. “Still . . . what do we know about her?”
“Trust me, the old lady is safe with Fleur. It’s more a question of whether Fleur is safe with Tante Lulu. Back to Wednesday’s meeting. The list of my flights related to the sex traffickers . . . should I be totally honest, or fudge, or go all ‘I refuse to answer on the grounds, etc.’?”
“Make an honest list, for me. Then let’s sit down and lay out a plan.”
“It might be easier if I just join the priesthood, an official member of St. Jude’s Street Apostles, and claim religious immunity. If there is such a thing.”
Luc leaned back in his chair and grinned. “Are you ready for celibacy?”
“Hell, no!”
“That wouldn’t work anyhow. No way you could become a priest in less than a week. And, by the way, you’ve got to lie low for the next couple months, while you’re in the feds’ crosshairs. No more unregistered flights.”
Aaron nodded, but he wasn’t so sure he could avoid involvement with the Street Judes. There was an upcoming “shipment” of girls coming into Mexico from Syria, of all places, that he might not be able to ignore. Snake wasn’t always available to fly.
Thankfully, Luc was off on another tangent, saving him having to give an actual promise. “But here’s another thought. Why not talk it over with Tante Lulu?”
“Are you crazy?”
“Really. The old lady knows everyone. Maybe she could pull a few strings. She’s a friend, or a friend of a friend, of some really powerful people.”
“As powerful as the FAA?”
“Hah! Higher than that.”
Later that day Aaron was driving his new silver pickup truck home, a replacement for his previous truck which had been mangled by a hit-and-run driver outside the Swamp Shack one night. As he drove along, he watched the Saint Jude bobblehead do its thing over the bumpy rural road. Half in jest, he said, out loud, “So, Saint Jude, think you could help me get out from Uncle Sam’s radar?”
He could swear he heard a voice in his head answer, As you wish.
So, in for a penny, in for a pound, he added, “And I could use a little help with a certain lady.”
The voice in his head was silent.
Some memoirs might best be left unwritten . . .
Fleur was settling in at Tante Lulu’s little two-bedroom cottage on Bayou Black. She’d even made peace with the old lady’s pet alligator, Useless, by feeding it a favorite treat, Cheez Doodles. Maybe this “sabbatical” from the convent wouldn’t be too bad.
Crushed shells filled the driveway and the neat flower beds of the dwelling, which was painted a cheerful yellow with green shutters and a green metal roof. It had originally been built in the old Cajun style of bousillage, according to Tante Lulu, which meant half logs with a chinking of fuzzy mud, a mixture of clay, Spanish moss, and crushed clam shells. The Cajuns did love their clam shells. Later, the structure had been stuccoed over and painted.
A stretch of lawn led down from the back porch, with its three rocking chairs, to the slow-moving, narrow stream. Midway, there was a fig-laden tree and a Saint Jude birdbath statue. Off to one side was a vegetable garden enclosed by wire mesh fencing to keep out the bayou critters. On the other side of the house was a detached garage, which seemed hardly big enough for Tante Lulu’s monster car.
Inside the cottage it was almost as if there were a third person present. Saint Jude. Every room was graced with some sign of Tante Lulu’s favorite saint. Saint Jude pictures on the walls and Saint Jude statues on practically every side table. In the kitchen, a Saint Jude tablecloth and napkins, fridge magnets, and mugs. A Saint Jude night light in the hall. A Saint Jude crocheted toilet paper holder in the bathroom. (I kid you not!) There was even a Saint Jude wind chime out on the porch, which would probably drive Fleur crazy at night with the bayou breezes.
Tante Lulu had insisted on feeding her right off, after Charmaine left for the ranch where her husband was planning a barbecue for that evening. Besides, he worried about her being so far from home when she was so far advanced in her pregnancy, Charmaine told them.
While Fleur had chowed down on the most delicious gumbo and the lightest biscuits and a glass of iced sweet tea in a kitchen fitted out with a vintage chrome and Formica dinette set with vinyl-covered chairs, Tante Lulu asked, “Didja ever meet Charmaine’s husband, Rusty Lanier?”
Fleur had shaken her head, her mouth full.
“Whoo-ee! That boy is so handsome he cain’t even walk down the street without women doin’ a double take. ’Course he’s a cowboy. And a Cajun. A double whammy.”
Fleur had thought of Aaron then, who was Cajun, and dressed like a cowboy. And, yeah, he had the “Whoo-ee!” factor down pat. Not that any of that mattered to her. At least, it hadn’t for a long, long time. Not that she would mention any of that to Tante Lulu, who fancied herself some kind of celestial matchmaker.
Now Fleur was in a room off the kitchen, the pantry, which had been converted into Tante Lulu’s work space for her traiteur business. A traiteur was a folk healer in Cajun land. A butcher-block table in the center held a mortar and pestle. Labeled bottles and jars and baskets filled all the floor-to-ceiling shelving units around the room. Everything from recognizable herbs, like rosemary or thyme or St. John’s Wort, to animal parts floating in murky liquids. Frog tongues, gator teeth, pigeon livers, snake hearts, bull bollocks, porcupine quills.
Fascinated, Fleur asked, “How did you get involved in folk healing?”
“I learned at my MawMaw and my mother’s knees. In the old days, nothin’ was written down. Jist passed down amongst the women in the family. Later, some receipts—thass what they called ’em back then—were kept, ’cept it was hard ta tell what some of the measurements meant. Like, how much is a passel of swamp grass, or a dollop of skunk oil? I’ve been tryin’ fer years ta organize it all inta book form. I’ve had help, but never quite finished. Somethin’ allus comes up.”
“Well, I can certainly help with that. Do you have any notes?”
Tante Lulu handed her a bulging old rent receipt book with loose sheets hanging out and a shoebox overflowing with scraps of paper. Fleur glanced at what was written on the back of a Boudreaux’s General Store receipt. “Heat Rash. Boil pig brain. Mix rendered fat w/ground gator tongue and mashed okra. Grated lemon peel to hide stink.”
Okaaay, looks like I have my work cut out for me. But that’s okay. It might be interesting. “I think all these remedies would be enhanced if you had a provenance with them.”
“Prava-what?”
“Provenance. The history of a recipe. Where you got it from. Perhaps a funny story about gathering the ingredients. That kind of thing.”
“I get it. Like the time my MawMaw and my Aunt Tildy almost drowned in the swamp when their pirogue was overturned by a gator. The mama gator dint want them harvestin’ any of her eggs fer their hemorrhoid salve.”
“Exactly,” Fleur said with a hidden roll of her eyes.
“And, by the way, yer not the first nun, or ex-nun, or almost-nun, I’ve been associated with. I’ll hafta introduce ya to my friend Grace O’Brien who lived here with me fer a spell. She’s an ex-nun who also happened ta be a professional poker player and a treasure hunter. She was helpin’ me ta organize my herbs, too, but then she met Angel Sabato, and the Thunderbolt of Love hit her, and wham! Now, she’s busy raising babies. I ’spect you two will have a lot in common.”
Listening to Tante Lulu was like trying to catch popcorn as it popped in an open pot. She was all over the place. Fleur blinked several times, waiting for her to elaborate. When she didn’t, Fleur brought up another subject. “I understand you’d like me to write your memoir, too. I’m not sure I’m the right person to do that. I don’t have any background as a writer.”
“’Course you’re the right person. You have ’zackly the right background ta suit me.”
Fleur waited for the old lady to elaborate, again.
“I used to be a Shady Lady myself, jist like you.” The old lady winked at her, as if they shared a secret.
At first, Fleur didn’t understand. But then she exclaimed, “Tante Lulu! You were a prostitute? No way!”
“Yes, I was. Well, not a prostitute precisely, but, fer a while there, I did open my legs fer every man with a hankerin’. I lost count after twenty. Did you ever keep count? No. Well, I kin understand that. My Fall From Grace came right after my Big Grief. Are you writing this down?”
Fleur put her face in her hands. What insane person had decided that her sojourn here on Bayou Black would be a retreat? It was more like the Black Hole of Bayou Madness.
For just a second, she glanced up and saw the image of St. Jude staring at her from the medallion at the end of the ceiling light’s chain pull. And she could swear she heard laughter in her head.
Shrine that! . . .
Since it was a Saturday and he didn’t have to work, Aaron decided to spend the rest of the day helping with the never-ending renovations around the plantation. Quickly tearing off the clothes he’d worn for the flight to and from Mexico and the ride into town to meet with Luc, he pulled on his go-to cargo shorts. The ones with all those pockets for nails and stuff, no need for a tool belt.
Although . . . maybe a tool belt would melt Fleur’s ice.
Then again, maybe not. If I can’t impress her with my Hot Pilot Persona, which usually works with women, I’m not gonna do it with Handyman Hunkiness.
He opted for no shirt. It was about ninety in the shade.
Maybe Fleur would be turned on by my bare chest. I’m in pretty good shape.
Then again, maybe not.
Despite the heat, he laced up a pair of heavy, steel-toed boots, having learned his lesson the hard way by accidentally nail-gunning one of a favorite pair of Lucchese cowboy boots last year. While he was in them! Shot that bugger right through to the floor. Good thing he’d missed a toe. Good thing he had a doctor on the premises, Dan had observed with a laugh at the time.
He raced down the steps of his garçonniére apartment, and practically barreled into his brother as he opened the door. “Whoa! I thought we had a workday scheduled.”
Dan was dressed like he did for work, his real work. Belted khakis, a dress shirt and tie, loafers, no jacket. He usually exchanged those for scrubs or one of those white doctor coats when he got to the medical center.
“Sorry. I was just coming to tell you that I got an emergency call. A little girl having a bad reaction to chemo. I shouldn’t be long.”
What could he say to that? “That’s okay. I’ll just relax by the pool till you get back. Wait a minute. We don’t have a pool. Darn!”
It was a running joke between them. Aaron wanted modern amenities here at Bayou Rose Plantation, like a rain forest shower (which he’d gotten) and a keg fridge (which he did not), while Dan and Samantha pushed for more practical things, like a new roof (What’s a little rain, indoors?), or furniture (Folding chairs, anyone?).
Bet Fleur would come over to my pool, if I had one. Bet she would look good in a bikini. Or a one-piece. Yeah, that would be better. But cut high and low, high on the hip, low on the chest. And when it was wet—
“On a day like today, I’d agree to the pool, but you know Samantha. Maintain historical integrity, preserve the past, yada, yada.” Dan shrugged.
Aaron gave his brother a fake punch in the arm. “Hey, bro! I was just teasing.” Actually, Samantha had done a great job in keeping the project on track, especially historically speaking, but that meant extra labor to meet her rigid specs. Which also meant ca-ching, ca-ching, ca-ching! Dan was the one who went bonkers over the money pit (thus, the “A friggin’ in-ground pool costs too damn much money!” refrain), but then Samantha had put in plenty of her own cash, being an heiress to the Starr Supermarket fortunes. So, Dan couldn’t complain too much. Mostly, her big-ticket purchases involved antique furniture which she explained away as “portable wealth.”
To which Dan usually responded, “Bullshit!” Like last week, when he’d added, “There’s nothing portable about that two-ton, five-thousand-dollar dresser thing.” It had taken four men—him, Dan, and two of the workmen—to get the thing off the truck and into the dining room.
“It’s a credenza, honey. A work of art.”
Dan had muttered something like, “Art, my ass!”
Samantha had made the mistake of forgetting to take the price tag off that particular piece of furniture before it was delivered. She rarely made that mistake, especially after she’d noticed Dan searching for the stickers on her purchases.
“Anyway, good antiques are an investment. Good as gold.”
Which was like waving a red flag in front of his brother. Because Samantha had a pigload of gold bars that she’d inherited, which she’d been selling off to finance some of her expenditures.
His brother had this pride thing going where he felt like Little Orphan Danny to her Mommy Warbucks. Not that Dan was a pauper, by any means. Nor was Aaron. Dan had made a good living as a doctor back in Alaska, and Aaron had reaped a bundle when the Alaska Air Shipping company was sold. They’d both done well in the stock market.
While Aaron’s mind had been wandering, Dan had kept talking. Aaron caught the tail end. “Anyway, I thought you’d be spending the day with your new babe.”
Big mistake, telling Dan about my infatuation with Fleur. Hey, I like that word. Infatuation. Makes me sound a little less pathetic. “Oh Lord! Don’t refer to her as a babe.”
“Why? That’s how you usually refer to your women.”
“Number one, she’s not my woman.”
“Yet.”
“Yet,” he conceded. “Besides, it’s just an infatuation.”
“Nice try, bro.”
The thing about twins was that they knew each other too well.
“As I told you, she’s practically a nun.”
“But kicked out of the convent.”
“But still in nun mode.”
“Good luck with that. When are we going to meet this wonder woman?”
“Wonder woman?”
“The girl who finally brought Aaron LeDeux to his knees. Speaking of knees, have you bought a ring yet?”
“Go to work,” Aaron said and walked his brother to his SUV. “I’m going to see a man about buying a bigass excavator to dig my pool.”
“Don’t you dare!”
No sooner did Dan leave than Samantha and Aunt Mel came down the wide front steps of the mansion.
Aunt Mel, dressed for the weather in shorts and a T-shirt, was above average in height, for an Inuit woman, due to a Russian grandfather, but otherwise, she had pure Aleutian features . . . a wide, flat face with almond-shaped eyes. She’d been very attractive as a young woman when his mother had first fallen in love with her, and still was, even as her black hair was threaded with silver.
Although he and Aaron called her aunt, she’d been more like a stepmother to them their entire lives. He loved the old lady, who wasn’t old compared to Tante Lulu, being only in her early sixties. Her visit to Louisiana was supposed to be temporary, to help with the babies, but everyone hoped she would decide to move here for good.
At the top of the steps, Axel sat, looking sad and longing. The old German shepherd’s hip problems precluded him from making the descent on his own anymore. He would wait there until his mistress returned.
Maddie, on the other hand, scooted around the dog and took the steps three at a time, racing off with cheetah speed across the lawn toward the bayou. She’d probably scented some bayou creature on the premises. Forget hunting dogs, they had their very own hunting cat. Once she’d even brought home a small wild boar.
Emily, Samantha’s potbellied pig, had gotten even more depressed than usual when she’d spotted that boar. She’d taken the assault personally, as if the boar might have been a cousin or something.
The other cats, Felix and Garfield, were stretched out on the verandah, sunning themselves. They didn’t even raise their heads to see what was going on.
Samantha moved carefully down the steps, holding on to a hand-carved side rail, which had been installed a few months ago. For a thousand dollars! He knew, because Dan had exploded when he got the bill, only settling down when told it was for Samantha’s safety and that of his unborn children.
Samantha was looking extra hippo-ish today in a sundress the size of a circus tent. He thought about asking her how much weight she’d gained with this pregnancy, but had the good sense to zip that thought. It was too hot to be a punching bag.
“Are you sure you aren’t going to pop those babies any minute now?” he asked when she got to the bottom of the steps, wheezing.
“Why? Do I look that fat?” she snapped.
Landmine! “No! Of course not,” he lied. “You look beautiful.”
Aunt Mel made a “Way to go!” fist pump gesture behind Samantha’s back. This must be one of Samantha’s pregnancy-induced, hormonal, moody days.
Samantha gave his shirtless body and bare legs a survey then, before pretending to fan her face with a hand and say with an exaggerated drawl, “Be still mah Southern belle heart! Ah do declare, if Ah weren’t with child, Ah’d surely swoon, or invite ya inside fer a mint julep . . . or somethin’.” She batted her red—auburn—eyelashes at him.
“Eew! Incest alert!”
She grinned at him.
“Where are you two going?” he asked.
“Shopping,” Aunt Mel replied, tossing her handbag and Samantha’s into the back seat of Samantha’s BMW, where two infant car seats had already been installed. “We’re having gumbo tonight. Your mother’s recipe. Gotta get a few ingredients at the grocery store. I told Samantha I could go myself.”
“Yeah, Sammie, why don’t you go relax by the pool?” Aaron said.
“Bite me!” Samantha replied, both because he’d made the pool complaint often enough for it to be old and because he’d called her Sammie, a nickname she hated.
“I could go shopping with you guys,” he offered.
They both looked at him as if he’d suggested something obscene, like nude chauffeuring, or bare buns biking, neither of which he’d ever actually done.
“You don’t even like shopping,” Aunt Mel observed.
“I like sanding twelve layers of paint off two-hundred-year-old window frames even less.”
“Besides,” Samantha said, “you’d probably just hit on every sales clerk in sight.”
“And your point is, Mommy?”
Samantha beamed, which just highlighted the freckles on her face, which she was always attempting to hide or tone down with some kind of make-up, to no avail. She loved any references to her upcoming Mommyhood.
He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek as he helped her into the passenger seat of the car. Not an easy task! If she fell on him, she’d crush him.
Another thing he chose, wisely, not to say out loud.
Instead, he said, “By the way, I thought of more names for the twins. Tony and Cleo. You know, after Anthony and Cleopatra.”
Samantha made a tsking sound, but then she got the last word in. “I invited Tante Lulu and her new roommate over for brunch, after church tomorrow. You better air out your church clothes.”
“Church clothes. What are they? And brunch? Since when do we do brunch?” he muttered to no one in particular. The BMW was already halfway down the horseshoe-shaped driveway. But what he thought was, Oh my God! This is either the answer to my prayers, or it’s going to be hell on wheels. Lavender wheels.
After that, he went to find Ed Gillotte, the resident construction foreman for their ongoing renovation project. That sounded more impressive than it really was. Ed was an ex-felon with impressive carpentry skills. He lived, with his three kids and a live-in girlfriend (who was working on her doctorate in physics . . . don’t ask!) and her kid, in the restored overseer’s house near the cane fields. (Yeah, they had sugarcane fields . . . don’t ask.)
Dan had hired Ed originally because one of his children had cancer and he had no place to stay while she was undergoing treatment at the medical center. It started with Ed fixing up one of the old slave cabins for himself. Before long, there were a half dozen of the cabins brought up to modern (though mostly historically accurate, thank you very much, Samantha) standards, housing other families of cancer patients.
Somehow, everything they did spiraled out of control that way.
Like his purchasing this rundown plantation as a means to lift Dan out of his slump (Can anyone say pediatric oncology burnout?) and give them a temporary place to live (which had turned into Tara Revisited).
Like them coming to Louisiana to make a family connection with one particular old lady (Guess who?), intending to stay one week max, and ending up still here years later, with about three dozen Cajun relatives.
Like his involvement with the Street Judes and the Magdas and sex trafficking. (Do a favor for a friend and end up center stage in a somewhat illegal rescue operation.)
Tante Lulu would say that it was all in the hands of the Powers-That-Be. Hello, up there, P.T.B. It’s me. Aaron. I’m a pilot, not some Rambo or Knight in Tarnished Armor.
He found Ed up by the slave cabins/guest cottages. (And wasn’t that an homage to political correctness?) He wore only shorts, as well . . . faded, cutoff jeans. Except he didn’t look half as good as Aaron, in Aaron’s not-so-humble opinion. In his early thirties, Ed was skinny, with a receding hairline of reddish-blond hair pulled back into a ponytail, and prison tats that were faded and not very attractive. One of his incisors was missing.
Ed was fixing the gate on Blue Willow. All of the little buildings, with their picket-fenced yards, had been given names related to their unique colors (a suggestion from Tante Lulu, which, of course, appalled Samantha’s historical accuracy standards, but who could argue with the Cajun bulldozer?). There was also Yellow Daisy, White Magnolia, Green Meadow, Peach Blossom, Rose Petal, and Purple Iris.
“What’s the occupancy today?” Aaron asked, not seeing any vehicles around.
“Full house. Everyone’s gone for the afternoon, though, either to the medical center or over to the gator farm. Del’s putting on some kind of show today.”
Del was Delilah Dugas, their neighbor. And, yes, she raised alligators which she sold to upscale restaurants for their meat, and to upscale designers for their skins, and, yes, she’d been known to wrestle the beasts on occasion. And no one thought she was weird, or anything.
Did I mention Cajuns are bat-shit crazy?
“Your family gone, too?” Aaron asked.
Ed nodded. “Except for Lily. She’s studyin’ for an exam, and the baby’s down for a nap.”
Lily Beth, a single parent to a one-year-old baby, was only a few courses away from being a full-blown physicist, while Ed was as blue collar as a man could get. She was pretty as her name, Southern to her dainty toes, and smart, really smart. A most unlikely couple. Go figure.
“You ready to tackle those windows?” Ed asked him.
“Unfortunately,” Aaron said, wiping the sweat off his brow with a forearm. “But first, I want to show you something.” They walked together toward the back of the mansion. There was a covered verandah outside the kitchens. Emily sat there munching on some pig kibble that must have been left by Samantha. The porcine pet was never far from the kitchen, unless Dan was around. Then she attached herself to him like a love-struck swain.
Beyond the kitchen porch was a courtyard paved with ancient bricks. On one side of the house there was a rose garden. Beyond that, an orchard of peaches, apples, plums, and cherries.
On the other side, there had once been paddocks for horses and other animals. Now it was just overgrown with weeds . . . a project for sometime in the future, one of many projects for the future.
“Picture this,” he said to Ed. “A deluxe in-ground pool with cool blue water. Maybe a waterfall at one end coming from a rock garden, or fountain, or something. A diving board. Some pool floats, the kind with built-in cup holders for beer or watermelon margaritas. A slate or tile pool surround with loungers and umbrella tables and tiki torches. Jimmy Buffett music coming from the sound system. An outdoor kitchen with a keg refrigerator and a honkin’ big barbecue.”
“Are there any women in this picture?” Ed asked.
“Oh yeah. Clothing optional.”
Ed arched a sweaty brow at that. “Are you serious?”
“Oh yeah!” Aaron walked the site for a while, then asked, “Do you think the water table would make a pool here impossible?”
“Difficult, but not impossible. Especially with this site being elevated quite a bit, compared to land closer to the bayou,” Ed answered. “It would need a drainage system under the pool, of course.”
“How much you figure it would cost?”
Ed shrugged. “I’m not an expert, but I’m guessing fifty to eighty thou.”
Aaron winced but was not deterred.
“How you gonna convince your brother and Samantha?”
“I’m not sure. Wait. I have an idea. You know that rock garden waterfall thingee I mentioned . . . how about if it’s actually a St. Jude shrine? Yeah, we could build a St. Jude swimming pool. If I get Tante Lulu on my side, this will be a done deal.”
“Wouldn’t that be kinda sacrilegious?”
“Ya think?”
“Actually, we could make it really dignified.” Ed smiled, exposing his missing tooth.
The two of them exchanged high fives.
Aaron had another suggestion then. “What say we skip the sanding for today and see if there’s any cold beer in the fridge?”
“Now, there’s an idea.”
As they walked back to the house, Aaron realized that he hadn’t thought about Fleur for the past hour. A remarkable feat, considering his “infatuation.” See, all I needed was something to occupy my mind. A project. Swimming pool in, infatuation out.
He glanced skyward and asked silently, So, what do you think, Jude? A swimming pool memorial?
The voice in his head responded immediately, Cool!