Bayou My Love: A Novel Page 2

  The Jeep stopped on what felt like solid earth, the weeds as high as the door handle. My heart hammered in my chest. Vergie used to tell me old voodoo legends about alligators, how they were tricksters, always causing trouble.

  Please don’t be stuck. Not out here.

  My foot eased the gas pedal down, and the Jeep inched forward. The tires spun as I pushed harder. “This is not happening.”

  A rusty pickup rumbled toward me. The driver gave me a long look, but he hardly slowed down. I nudged the Jeep into four wheel drive and turned the tires as I hit the gas. It rocked a few times, then lurched forward and caught hold of the grass before crossing onto the pavement. I glanced back to where the alligator had crossed, but it was gone.

  “Welcome back,” I muttered to myself.

  ~~~~

  The old two-lane highway cut the land in half, with swamps on one side and pastures on the other. With the black water so close, I felt like the earth might open up and devour me at will. The trees were full of moss, the water creeping up their trunks like it was swallowing them.

  I passed Vergie’s driveway the first time, not recognizing it until I caught a glimpse of the pale blue goose she’d left by the mailbox like a sentinel. The paint was peeling, but the goose stood firmly in a patch of daylilies, just as it had since I was a girl. I turned around and eased onto the dirt drive. I felt the hollow in my chest expand, the void Vergie had left.

  Cypress trees lined the road to the house, their limbs curling toward the ground. The breeze tickled the drooping leaves of the trees, and in the distance I heard the faint clink of glass, like a wind chime. Just beyond the house stood a spirit tree, bottles hanging from its branches like Christmas ornaments. It had been there long before Vergie, but she had added a few herself after drinking pints of bourbon and gin. She used to tell me those bottles captured evil spirits, kept them from roaming through the bayou and attaching themselves to good folks that lived nearby. I’d never really believed they held ghosts, but I liked the sound of the wind whistling over the lips of the bottles. Now, as the light glinted blue and green in the leaves of the tree, the sound felt more melancholy than soothing.

  This place had a wildness that was hard not to like. It smelled sweet like magnolia, bitter like the swamp. Egrets dotted the trees like blooms of cotton, preening themselves in the slivers of sunlight. The driveway wound back into the woods, hidden from the main road. Patches of gravel mixed with the soil, packed hard from the heat and drought. When at last I pulled into the yard, I was surprised at how small the house seemed compared to my memory of it. It was still plenty big at two stories high, but it was a paler shade of blue than I remembered, and the roof was missing some shingles. The porch was cluttered with potted flowers, strings of lights hanging from the eaves, and a hammock strung between two corner posts. I could almost see Vergie’s silhouette in the rocker, and I knew then that I was going to prove my father wrong.

  I had to. I owed it to Vergie. This place was a part of her, and it was a part of me now too. I had to do this right.

  It wasn’t until I saw a pair of feet dangling from the hammock that I noticed the truck parked under a tree at the edge of the yard. A small dark pickup with patches of rust like spots on a horse. I squinted at the feet, thinking surely I was seeing something that wasn’t there. But there was no mistaking the shape in the hammock, the lazy swinging motion.

  I leapt from the car and slammed the door so hard that a head rose above the banister. My father had dealt with squatters once or twice, but I hadn’t thought they’d move in so fast. Striding toward the steps, I cursed myself for not coming by when I was in town for the funeral.

  I tried to cool my temper and concentrated on the sound of my boot heels pounding the dirt. There was no turning back now, because the man had definitely seen me.

  He sat up in the hammock, and I swallowed hard as I reached the steps.

  Chapter 2

  The man’s hair was rumpled, as if he’d slept in that hammock all night. His shirt, rolled at the wrists, was pushed up just enough from his pants that I could see a thin band of tan skin above his belt. He appeared to be only a few years older than me, but had tiny wrinkles around his eyes and lips that suggested he’d spent more time in the sun. And he looked familiar. My mind raced, trying to figure out where I’d seen him before.

  “Hi there,” he said, sitting up straight. “Are you lost?”

  “No,” I said, planting my hands on my hips. Be calm, I thought. This doesn’t have to get ugly.

  “I don’t get too many visitors. I figured you took a wrong turn off the main road. You’d have to be lost to end up out here.” His drawl made my ears tingle in a nice way, but the way he lounged in the hammock like he owned the place made me want to push him out of it head first.

  “How about you tell me who you are,” I said. “And what you’re doing here.”

  He sat up straighter, running his hands through his dark hair. It was short, but stood out in tufts, as if the wind had pulled it through the holes in the hammock. “I believe it’s customary for the interloper to identify herself to the current inhabitant,” he said, half-smiling. “Not the other way around.”

  “This is my house,” I said, trying to hold my temper down. “So that makes you the interloper.”

  He chuckled. “Darlin’, I think you’ve got me confused with somebody else that lives in the middle of nowhere. Who are you looking for?” His tone was even, as if this kind of encounter happened every week.

  “I’m not looking for a who,” I said. “I’m looking for a house. This house. And last I checked, I didn’t have any long-lost cousins living in it.”

  He glanced around him. “Well, one of us is in the wrong place. And it ain’t me.” His dark blue eyes held me in a warm gaze that in any other situation would make me want to lean in closer.

  “This is my grandmother’s house,” I said, no longer caring when or where I might have seen him before. The priority was my property.

  He cocked his head. “You mean Vergie?” His eyes lit up. “Well, why didn’t you say so, darlin’?” He eased out of the hammock as slow as a river. Even his voice swaggered, and I imagined what it would sound like against my ear.

  I shook my head to erase the thought.

  When he stood, he smoothed his shirt down against his body. Tall and muscular, he towered over me, and I’m no small woman. His shirt was snug against his broad shoulders, pulled taut across his biceps. He held out his hand, smiling like I was some long lost friend, and in spite of myself, I shook it.

  “I’m Jack Mayronne,” he said. His big hand squeezed mine, and I swallowed hard as something that felt like static electricity rippled down my arm.

  “Enza Parker,” I said, struggling to keep my voice firm. “You knew my grandmother?” The nagging feeling returned. Where had I seen him? At this house when I was a teenager? Recently, when I was back for the funeral? I’d blocked so many of those images from my mind, and right now was not the time to try to recover them.

  His thumb slid along my palm, and I saw a tattoo peeking out from under the sleeve of his shirt, a black curve like a snake. I wondered how far up it went.

  “Sure,” he said, holding my hand a little too long. “She was a fine lady. And if you come from that stock, I guess you’re all right.”

  “That still doesn’t explain what you’re doing in her house.”

  He grinned, shoving his hands into his pockets. He looked like he could have come from a rodeo, in his faded jeans and plaid pearl-snap shirt. “You’re just as feisty as she was, aren’t you? I always liked that about her.”

  I felt my cheeks redden, and I hoped he didn’t notice. Maybe he’d think it was the heat. After all, summer in Louisiana feels like being inside an oven.

  “I’ve been renting this place for several months now,” he said. A dog crossed the yard and trotted over. It lifted one ear toward the sound of Jack’s voice and then sat by his feet. “Hey, jolie,” he said, bending down to p
at her on the head. She was stocky, and speckled brown and gray like granite, with expressive ears and a docked tail. Her eyes narrowed in my direction, and she let out a half-hearted bark.

  “A Catahoula,” I said, holding my hand out for her to sniff.

  “Yeah,” Jack said, and she snorted.

  “The lawyer never mentioned anyone renting this house,” I said.

  “Probably didn’t know. Vergie had only been living in the city for about six months. She let me stay here for practically nothing, just so it wouldn’t sit empty.”

  “In the city?”

  “She was staying in New Orleans with a friend,” he said, still stroking the dog’s fur. “Didn’t you know?”

  “We were out of touch for a long time.”

  “I was awful sad to hear about her,” he said. “They broke the mold when they made Vergie.”

  It bothered me that he knew more about my own grandmother than I did. And it hurt when I thought about how I’d avoided this place for so long, how I’d gone so many years without seeing the woman who had been like a second mother to me. I pushed the regrets away to stop my voice from cracking. “I spent every summer here when I was a kid,” I said, sitting down next to him on the porch steps.

  Ordinarily, I wouldn’t let my guard down with a stranger, but the drive and the humidity had left me weak. With no breeze, the air was stifling, and I was grateful for any patch of shade.

  “Me, too,” he said. “I mean, I used to work for her. Started when I was about seventeen.”

  “Really?”

  “Yard work and odd jobs. She was trying to keep me out of trouble, I think.”

  I smiled, wondering if that was true.

  “Strange,” he said. “We could have met years ago. Wouldn’t that be something?” He stared at me for a while, like he might recognize me.

  Maybe that was it… I glanced away.

  The dog pressed her nose against my thigh. She squinted at me and then dropped her head on my knee as I scratched her ears.

  “You all right?” he asked. “You look a little pale.” He set those eyes on me again, and I felt like I’d burn up right there on the porch. He seemed to genuinely care, despite the fact that I’d accused him of trespassing.

  “It’s the heat,” I said. “I’m not used to it any more.”

  He smiled, revealing dimples that were made for disarming people like me. “Where are you coming from?”

  “Raleigh.” My eyes drifted to the inside of his forearm, to his tattoo. I had a soft spot for tattoos—especially the kind only partially revealed by clothing. I didn’t want him to catch me staring, though, so I looked back to the dog, who had started to drool on my knee. Apparently she’d decided I was no longer a threat.

  “How about a glass of water?” he asked, touching my arm.

  “Sure, thanks.”

  He stared at me like he thought I might faint. “It’s a hot one today. I’d bring you inside, but the A/C units have been acting up, blowing fuses every chance they get. I’m trying to give them a rest.”

  I leaned against the stair railing, feeling light-headed.

  “At least out here there’s a breeze,” he said. He disappeared into the house, leaving me on the porch. I pictured myself sitting in a rocker with Vergie, sipping tea and eating macaroons. It didn’t seem possible that someone else could live here now.

  “Here you go, cher,” Jack said, sitting next to me again.

  Cher. I fought back a smile, thinking that was likely his way of getting anything he wanted from a woman. There probably weren’t many that could turn down the likes of him.

  Jack’s knee brushed mine, and I instinctively moved my leg away. “You know you have to leave,” I said. I tried to be as nice as possible while standing my ground. Being a landlord was not anywhere on my to-do list.

  “Usually it takes longer for women to tell me that.”

  “Sorry,” I told him. “I’m no good at evicting people.”

  “Then don’t,” he said, his voice light. He smiled again.

  “I’m not in the business of renting. I’m here to fix this house and sell it. I’m afraid that means you have to leave.”

  “But I live here,” he said. “You know how hard it is to find nice places out this way?”

  “Didn’t you think that when the landlady died, you should start looking for a new house?” I leaned against the banister, fanning myself. “I’m sorry that this comes as a surprise to you, but I’ve got no other option.”

  He shrugged. “I’d paid Miss Vergie up through the next few months. I figured I had a couple more weeks to worry about moving.”

  I tried to wrap my head around the logic of that. It was hard to give him a firm glare when he gazed at me with those woeful eyes.

  Like a calf in a hailstorm, Vergie would have said.

  “How about if I refund your rent?”

  He ran his hands through his hair. “How about you keep renting to me,” he suggested.

  I laughed but then saw he was serious. “I’m no landlord, Mr. Mayronne. I don’t have time for that kind of responsibility.”

  “How hard can it be, cher? You just collect a check now and then.”

  “I don’t live around here. I can’t keep this place up.”

  “I’ve been keeping it up just fine.” He sounded insulted. “You think I called Miss Vergie every time a pipe burst? I’ve been fixing things up all the while. You wouldn’t need to be nearby.”

  The place did look OK, but he’d done some half-assed repairs. A couple of boards on the porch were unfinished, recently replaced. The paint on the door and window sills was fresher than the rest, making the older paint look dirty. The inside was probably peppered with spots that needed a matching coat of paint or a few finishing nails. People were constantly doing do-it-yourself repairs only halfway, which always meant more work for me.

  “You’ll have to find another place,” I said.

  The dog sat up, ears flat.

  “But Enza, you can’t just kick me out.” His eyes were bright blue, but they flashed darker as he became flushed. When the light hit them, I saw little flecks of green, and I wanted to lean in for a better look. I was helpless around good-looking, charming guys like him, and I knew if he caught on to that, he’d try anything to stay.

  I set the glass of water on the ground and stood so I could glare down at him. “I’m the owner, Mr. Mayronne. I can do whatever I want.” He might have been a friend of Vergie’s, but that didn’t mean he’d have her roof over his head for the rest of his life.

  The dog growled, deep in her throat, and wiggled her haunches. Jack pointed a finger at her, and she stopped. “Come on, cher,” he said. “I don’t want any trouble. But I don’t want to be out of a home, either.”

  “Look, this isn’t personal. This is running a business.”

  He stood then, rising a head higher than me. “This is not what your grandmother would want,” he said calmly.

  I climbed to the top step to look him in the eye again. “How would you know what she’d want?” I leaned closer. “How dare you.”

  “Because she was thoughtful and considerate,” he said, standing so close I could see those stupid green flecks in his eyes, “and she wouldn’t kick a man out into the cold.”

  “I don’t think you have to worry about the cold around here.”

  He leaned against the banister. “I signed a lease, you know. I’m supposed to have a few months left.”

  “There’s a loophole for death of the landlord. Those are standard.” I glared at him until he finally looked away.

  He paced across the porch. His broad shoulders drooped as he shoved his hands in his pockets. I felt bad for the guy, but there wasn’t an easy way out of this. As Jack Mayronne scratched his stubbly chin, he reminded me of the last man I fell in love with. He used to scratch his chin like that when he was deep in thought. I could still feel the roughness of his cheek against my skin. The thought made me shiver.

  I shoved t
he thought away. Right now I needed to focus on fixing this house and proving my father was wrong about me. You’ve got no follow-through, Enza, he liked to say all too often. I told myself that was just boredom—if I could finish projects fast enough, then I wouldn’t push details aside. Even though Dad was a big-picture man, he loved zooming in on the details and using them to point out my weaknesses.

  I hated him for that, but I feared he might be right. Fixing this house, though, would prove I wasn’t as weak-willed as he liked to think. That would be one delicious moment.

  But first I had to get rid of this man who seemed as rooted here as the cypress in the backyard.

  “Surely we can come to some kind of agreement,” he said.

  “Yes. You can leave as soon as possible.”

  “How long will it take you to fix this place up like you want it?”

  I studied the peeling paint, the hedges that were overtaking the rails. “What difference does that make?”

  “Come on. Humor me.”

  “I couldn’t say without seeing the inside.”

  “So let’s take a tour.” He pushed the front door open and motioned for me to go in. The dog raced through ahead of us.

  Before I could argue, he led me inside by the elbow. He could easily bash me over the head, but if I wanted to see the house, my options were limited. This seemed to be the only peaceful way. And I felt it would be a mistake to get him angry. People often get defensive about their homes, and I needed to stay on Jack Mayronne’s good side.

  “How about you let me stay—just while you fix things up,” he said. “That should give me enough time to find another place.”

  I barely heard him as we walked down the hallway into the kitchen. I saw myself at twelve years old, sitting at the table playing checkers with Vergie, both of us wearing frilly old dresses, sipping imaginary mint juleps and fanning ourselves with antique lace fans. The room was plainer now, with straight lace sheers over the windows. But the old table and chairs remained.