Tall, Dark, and Cajun by Sandra Hill

And Rachel did.

  When she finished, and was weeping audibly, Laura said, “This is amazing. You’ve only known the man for two weeks. How could you fall in love so fast?”

  “I know exactly how,” Jill interjected before Rachel could answer. “One date with Hank, and I was a goner. We were married three months later. Some things happen that way, Laura.”

  “He sounds yummy,” Laura conceded, “even with the face disfigurement that you mentioned. A pilot. A Cajun. A good dancer, for heaven’s sake. Where you gonna find that?”

  “And a good lover, if I’m reading between the lines,” Jill remarked with a little chuckle.

  “Do you want us to come down there?” Laura offered.

  “Definitely not,” Rachel said. “I’m a little raw because this just happened last night, but I’ll be all right.” I hope.

  “Well, I can see why you were so devastated,” Laura went on. “Coming right on top of David’s lack of disclosure, this must feel like a double whammy of betrayal.”

  “Yes, it does.”

  “But, in his defense,” Jill began, “though Lord knows the man doesn’t need my defense, think about how he must feel. Men are so proud, especially when their precious you-know-what’s involved. He probably considers his sterility a mark against his masculinity. He feels like less of a man. I know Hank would, no matter how illogical that would be.”

  “I can’t believe you’re defending the bum,” Laura said.

  “I’m not defending him. Just trying to explain why he would have acted the way he did. I’m betting that Rachel is the only person he’s ever told about this.”

  “None of that matters. He didn’t tell me, and now it’s over,” Rachel said firmly.

  “Well, it’s something to think about,” Jill persisted.

  “I’m not going to think about any such thing,” Rachel said adamantly.

  But she could swear she heard a voice in her head insist, Think about it.

  Heartbreak Hotel, or rather, heartbreak houseboat

  Remy was so lonesome he could cry.

  It’s over.

  How could things go so wrong in such a short time? It was Tuesday morning, thirty-six hours since Rachel had stomped away from him at the party on Sunday night. And he hadn’t talked to her since, except for that cold-as-a-dead-fish message she’d left on his answering machine yesterday.

  It’s over.

  He’d love to go on an all-out bender. Lock himself in the houseboat. Hide the car keys from himself. And drink himself to unconsciousness. But he had obligations to the DEA this week, too many jobs to do which required total concentration. He had to train the government pilots for two days, starting tomorrow. Strategy meetings galore. And D-Day was only a few days off.

  Still, he kept thinking, It’s over.

  Things couldn’t go on this way.

  As with other of the injustices in his life, Remy decided that, first, he’d allow himself to hurt. Then, he would get angry. Finally, he would let his determination kick in. He was about at the third stage now.

  Over the years, Remy had learned to guard his defenses. He almost never showed anyone his naked body because at heart he believed that everyone rejected him on some level. On occasion, he did reveal himself, when the sexual need became too overpowering, like it had with Rachel.

  But he had never, ever told anyone about his sterility. Not even his family. Rachel was the only one, and look what it had gotten him—a kick in the nuts.

  How dare she give him the ol’ heave-ho just because he couldn’t give her a bunch of mini-me’s? Oh, he knew what she’d said about the betrayal business. Hogwash! She hadn’t fooled him. Her ticking baby clock had collided with his sterility roadblock. Deep down, she had to be repulsed by his inability to shoot out the proper sperm. She might not have vomited when she looked at his mangled body the first time, but in a way that’s what she’d virtually done over his inability to reproduce. Dieu, what a fool he’d been! Well, never again. C’est la vie.

  Remy had tried all yesterday morning to reach Rachel, to apologize, for chrissake. But not anymore. Even if Rachel begged him to come back, which she wouldn’t, he could never trust her again. He’d laid his heart on the line, his most intimate secret, and she’d dumped him. Then, she’d refused to take his calls the next day. No second chances. Nothing.

  Well, adios, señorita. This cowboy is heading off into the sunset.

  His resolution was tested quicker than he’d imagined. There was a knock at the door. His heart skipped a beat, but not because he thought it might be Rachel. He knew it wouldn’t be. But he was surprised, nonetheless.

  Rachel’s grandmother, Gizelle Fortier, stood out on his deck, looking witchier than usual today with her straggly hair and unkempt clothing. Was that burlap she wore all the time? Or just swamp chic?

  “To what do I owe this pleasure?” he said through the screen door.

  “Cut the crap, buster. Me, I’m not here to please you.”

  “You gonna put a voodoo curse on me, old lady?”

  “Doan think I cain’t? But thass not why I’m here.”

  “No? What, then? I’m dying to know.” Belatedly, he realized how rude he appeared, not even inviting her in. “Do you want to come in and have a drink, or something?”

  She just laughed, or rather cackled. Really, the woman gave him the creeps. Good thing that he and Rachel hadn’t worked things out. Hard to imagine being related to this old biddy.

  “All right, Gizelle, what is it you want?”

  “Ms. Fortier to you.”

  “Ms. Fortier then.” He leaned against the door frame and waited for her to disclose the reason for her stepping onto hated LeDeux property.

  “I know what you been doin’ with my granddaughter.”

  “You do?”

  She nodded. “Fornicatin’ like a billy goat, you cock of the roost, but no more. I’m fixin’ to make sure of that. Time to put that wee-wee of yours out of commission.”

  “Really? What’re you gonna do, old lady? Cut off my wee-wee? I wouldn’t put it past you. Or put a voodoo curse on other body parts?”

  “Now, there’s a thought.”

  “Does Rachel know you’re here?”

  “Hell, no, she’s over at Charmaine’s pickin’ colors or sumpin.” She narrowed her eyes shrewdly at him. “Or mebbe she and Charmaine are out pickin’ up men—better men than you.”

  He had to laugh at Gizelle’s transparent ploy to make him jealous.

  “Enough foolery! You still wanna buy a piece of my property, yes?”

  He nodded slowly, suddenly alert. He named a very generous sum that he would be willing to pay.

  She waved a hand as if the amount were unimportant. “I’ll sell you the land on one condition.”

  I knew there would be a catch. “And that is?”

  “You agree to stop seeing my granddaughter.”

  Remy inhaled sharply, as if he’d been kicked in the gut. He hadn’t been expecting this. Two days ago—hell, a day ago—he would have laughed in her face. No piece of land was worth his integrity. If he wanted a woman, he wouldn’t have let money or land or anything else stand in his way.

  But, in light of his recent musings—his firm conviction that things were over with Rachel—he gave Gizelle’s proposal consideration. It was over with Rachel anyway. Perhaps Gizelle didn’t realize that. He’d never forgive Rachel for the look on her face when he told her of his shameful secret. Never.

  “It’s a deal,” he said. “I’ll see you in Luc’s office on Thursday to make it legal.”

  She cackled like a chicken as she walked away.

  Remy should have been jubilant. The land would finally be his. But, instead, his body felt leaden and heavy.

  And that dreaded voice in his head said, What a fool!

  Chapter 14

  Can’t get no

  By Thursday, Remy was horny as hell.

  He’d been busy training pilots, engaged in meetings, studying maps, going over and o
ver the plan of action for D-Day, taking cold showers. He should’ve had no time to think of sex, or Rachel, which were the same thing in his vivid imagination.

  Besides that, the farther away from Sunday night’s blow-up that he got, the more he convinced himself that she was the guilty party, not him. The only thing he’d done wrong was get shot down by an Iraqi bomb which mangled his body and screwed up his baby factory. Okay, he hadn’t told her right away. Big deal! So sue me! Did she expect him to shout his manly imperfections to the world?

  So why did he keep thinking about her? How sexy she looked, clothed and unclothed. The way she smelled, before and after sex. The soft moan she made when she came— and came again. How she’d looked when she said, “I love you.” The curve of her ass, seen from behind, preferably naked, which was beyond beautiful, no matter what she thought.

  He didn’t care about her anymore, much less love her, but he sure-God wanted to jump her bones again. Lust, pure and simple, that’s all. At least, that’s what he told himself.

  He’d thought about going down to Swampy’s and picking up some chick for a bout of mutual satisfaction. Wham-bam-thank-you-chère was just the thing on occasion. But that held no appeal. He knew a few women he could call and make a date for dinner and whatever, but that held no appeal, either. Or he could hook up again with Claudia Casale, a P.I. and former Dallas police detective, with whom he’d had a brief affair a few years back and somehow managed to emerge as friends. That held no appeal, either. Why ruin a good friendship for the sake of temporary lust lunacy? He’d even thought of hitting Bourbon Street for its peculiar kind of action. Talk about no appeal!

  It was just going to take time.

  So, Remy rolled up the maps on his desk and opted for the best antidote to horniness he could think of. Better than an ice-cold shower any day.

  He was going to visit Tante Lulu, bless his horny soul!

  Who said big girls don’t cry?

  Every time Rachel thought she’d finished crying, she would start all over again. The least little thing set her off. The memory of Remy’s disfigured body and his self-consciousness about it. The way his skin smelled. The way he smiled, slow and sexy. The way he talked with a Southern drawl. The way he looked, all serious and focused, when he was inside her. The way he said, “I love you,” putting emphasis on each separate word.

  It was going to take time, she finally concluded. And keeping herself busy was the answer.

  Work had begun on Charmaine’s redecoration, and Rachel was pleased with the progress thus far. This morning, she’d gone over to Remy’s houseboat. The skylight had been installed yesterday, and it looked wonderful. Amazing what a difference it made, not only in brightening up the interior, but making it appear much larger. The carpenter was still working on the built-ins, and he would be sanding and refinishing the floors and walls today. The seamstress wouldn’t install the draperies or bring the new bedspread and cushions until next week. Ditto for the plumber and tile man.

  Rachel had added an ironic touch to the decorating of Remy’s home. She’d placed David’s antique Roseville vase on a small gateleg hall table near the door; the table had been purchased for a song at a yard sale she’d passed yesterday on the way back from Charmaine’s. Remarkably, the beautiful pottery, in the rare Della Robbia pattern, seemed almost made for this setting. Its vivid colors and floral motif provided a great contrast to the dark colors of the paneling and floor.

  Besides, David would be so pissed that she would just give the piece away. Irritating David gave her great satisfaction.

  Two weeks had passed since she’d seen David last, and she’d only spoken to him on the phone that one time. She marveled that no pain remained over their breakup, just sadness and a little need for vindictiveness, as evidenced over her glee regarding the Roseville vase.

  Thank Goodness, Remy had been absent while she worked at his houseboat, as she’d demanded. But a little part of her mourned his absence. Perhaps she had hoped in some fanciful part of her soul that he would have shown up, begged her forgiveness, and somehow they would have worked things out.

  All girls believed in Prince Charming to some extent, she supposed. Even big girls. But unfortunately modern women had to accept that most often the prince was just a royal pain.

  She’d also gone jogging today, for the first time in weeks, part of her “keep-busy” plan, not to mention her “work-off-Granny’s-food” plan. Glancing down at her dust-covered running bra and nylon shorts, she winced. Jogging on a dirt road didn’t quite match city jogging, for sure.

  Anyhow, Rachel had other problems today. Her missing purse, the one she had lost in the bayou jungle when she and Tante Lulu had run for their lives, was proving to be a bigger pain than the other big pain. Since theft was not an issue, just loss, she had mistakenly thought it would be an easy matter to cancel the credit cards and get a new driver’s license. Not so. Being away from home and all her stored documents, she was having trouble conducting the transactions over the phone. It wouldn’t be impossible, she was told over and over, just extremely difficult. “Can’t you try to find your missing purse?” more than one person had asked her.

  Finally, that’s just what Rachel decided to do. Hopping into her red pickup truck with the REDHOT vanity plate, probably red in the face from aggravation, she drove over to Tante Lulu’s house. She didn’t even bother to change her clothes for fear she might back down. How silly! After all, she was a grown woman. She needed her purse. What could be so hard about going in a boat with the old lady again?

  That strange little voice that she’d been hearing in her head lately said, Uh-oh!

  You want to do WHAT?

  Remy was sitting with Tante Lulu at her kitchen table with a large map rolled out before them, trying to pinpoint exactly where she’d seen the submerged “coffin.” Explanations like “just past the crooked loblolly, turn left, or was it right, no left, then sharp right, ’til you see the half-sunk log that looks like a man’s too-too, then the Queen cypress with all her ladies in waiting, then right again .. .” just didn’t help much.

  He hadn’t called ahead, but Tante Lulu greeted him warmly, as always, and insisted on whipping up a meal for him of catfish chowder with fresh-made beaten biscuits dripping with butter, a side of couche-couche—fried corn meal mush topped with sugar and cream—and several cups of thick, black coffee. All this, despite the fact that he’d caught her in the middle of frosting her hair, which was magically coal black today, a change from yesterday’s gray with purple streaks. The process amounted to her having little pigtails wrapped with tin foil and slathered with white goop all over her black curly head. Her flowered muu-muu and flat house slippers completed the ludicrous picture.

  You had to love a woman who had so much self-confidence she could walk around looking like a goofball and not even blanche with embarrassment.

  “So, what’s the deal with you and Rachel? I been workin’ on the bride quilt,” she pointed to the frame set up in one corner of the living room, “but Charmaine tol’ me it’s all off with you two. Kaput!”

  “Charmaine talks too much.”

  “You allus was a prideful man. Doan be lettin’ yer pride get in the way of true love, boy.”

  “Who said anything about true love?”

  “Is this a pride thing?”

  “Yeah,” he admitted, “but that doesn’t mean it’s unimportant. There are some things a man needs to be a man, and women just don’t understand.”

  “Huh? That was clear as bayou mud.”

  “Forget about it.”

  “Ah, Remy, what happened? I see in yer eyes that you still care. Cain’t it be fixed, sweetie?”

  “You don’t see anything in my eye, auntie, and, no, it can’t be fixed. So, just forget about it. A bulldozer and a thousand prayers to St. Jude won’t change things now.”

  The voice in his head said, Wanna bet?

  A voice outside yelled, “Yoo-hoo! Anybody home?”

  “That’ll teach yo
u to put down St. Jude,” Tante Lulu said, slapping him on the arm.

  Remy put his face in his hands for a second before standing and looking out the window. It was Rachel in her bright red pickup trucking flashing the hooker plate reading RED-HOT. She probably didn’t realize he was here since he’d driven his small boat down the bayou, instead of his Harley.

  “Come on in,” Tante Lulu invited Rachel cheerily through the screen door. To Remy, she added, “Behave yerself, and mebbe, jist mebbe, you’ll be having make-up sex by nightfall.”

  Make-up sex? Where does she get this nonsense? She

  better not mention it to Rachel. “Don’t you dare do or say anything. It’s over with me and Rachel. Period.”

  His aunt just ignored him, as usual.

  Rachel walked through the door, and all he could say then was, “Holy crap!” Her hair was wild and frizzy today from the humidity, so she’d pulled it up into a high thingamabob atop her head with loose tendrils trailing out. She didn’t appear to be wearing any make-up, but one never knew; women had a way of fooling men with invisible make-up tricks. In any case, she looked fresh-scrubbed and scrumptious, if that was a word that could be used by a man to describe a woman. Yes, he decided, scrumptious is a perfectly good word for her.

  She wore a stretchy bra type thing and swishy exercise shorts which led down miles of shapely legs to white athletic shoes with half socks peeking out. There was lots of exposed creamy skin between the bra thing and the shorts. He wondered with testosterone-induced irrelevance if she still smelled of coconuts. If his aunt weren’t here, he might be tempted to toss Rachel over his shoulder and carry her down the hall to his boyhood room where they’d have wild sex with Richard Petty and Heather Locklear looking on. Hell, even with his aunt here, he was tempted.

  So, what did he say, brilliant guy that he was? “What are you doing here?” His voice, which apparently had a mind of its own, reeked with surliness.

  “Remy! For shame!” his aunt reprimanded him.

  “I didn’t know you were here,” Rachel told him, a bit too defensively for his taste.

  “Obviously. But now that you know I am, scram!” Dieu, who is putting these words in my mouth.