Bayou My Love: A Novel Read online

  But my father had hijacked my brain, and with his voice ringing in my ears, there was no way I could spend the day in bed with Jack. I could deal with a lot of different kinds of weird, but not that kind.

  Now Jack took great delight in torturing me, staring at me as he sucked the sugar from his fingertip.

  “Come on,” I said. “Enough already.”

  “I don’t know what you mean, cher.”

  “Whatever.” I climbed out of the Jeep, grinning to myself as he followed me up the porch steps.

  Because the insurance agent had instructed us to leave the damaged room alone for a few days, I started back on my list, pretending there was no burned room to contend with.

  Instead, Jack and I started painting the first room upstairs in “Virginia Beach,” the shade of blue he’d chosen. He’d left the room as a spare, with hardly any furniture. There was a roll top desk, a love seat and an oriental rug. Built-in bookcases boasted an array of books and knickknacks. With little wall space, it was a cinch to paint. We’d made our now-standard island of furniture in the center of the room, draped some cloths over everything and rolled up the rug. I’d plugged in the record player outside in the hallway, and Jack had surprised me by dropping the needle onto an early Al Green record. He surprised me even more by crooning along.

  We were nearly halfway finished with the walls when the dog started barking in the yard.

  I went into Vergie’s bedroom to look out the window and saw a car in the driveway.

  “Hey, Jack,” I called, “someone’s here.”

  He met me in the hallway, still holding a paintbrush. “I’ll go,” he said, brushing past me down the stairs. Just like that, he’d shifted back to protective mode, all business and no more Al.

  The doorbell rang when we were midway down the steps.

  “Jack, really. I think it’s safe for me to open the door to my house.”

  He tossed me an annoyed glance and beat me to the door.

  A man in a bright blue shirt and suit pants stood on the porch, his finger hovering above the buzzer. He held a small notebook and clipboard under his arm. His salt-and-pepper hair was gelled into a kind of wave.

  Jack leaned against the door, almost blocking my view. He braced his other arm against the door frame in a way that meant no one was coming through him.

  “Hi,” the man said. “I’m looking for Miss Parker. Mr. Parker asked me to come over and take a look around. I hope now is a good time. He asked me to work this in today.”

  I squeezed past Jack and extended my hand. “I’m Enza Parker. And you are?”

  “August James,” he said, shaking my hand a bit too firmly. “Your father said you were looking to sell as-is and sent me to get some information from you and work up some comps.”

  “He what?”

  “He explained you were on a tight schedule,” he said. “I can give you an idea of asking price by tomorrow.”

  “I think there’s been some mistake,” Jack said.

  But I knew there had been no mistake. I felt everything in me tighten like a spring.

  “Mr. James,” I said, my voice even, “I’m sorry my father wasted your time, but he’s not in charge of this sale. I’m afraid I’m not selling this house as-is. Maybe I could contact you in a few weeks when the repairs are finished.”

  His lips parted.

  Jack’s hand came to rest at the small of my back, and I relaxed.

  “I’m very sorry for the confusion,” I said.

  He looked stunned. “I don’t understand. You don’t want comps?”

  “No, but please leave your card,” I went on, “because I’ll be handling the sale and will be looking for a real estate agent in a few weeks.”

  He pulled a business card from the pocket of his shirt and handed it to me, his brow furrowed. “Don’t you want me to just look around and give you a ballpark?”

  Jack crossed his arms over his chest.

  “Well, please call me if you change your mind,” August said. “This is a lovely property.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I’m sorry for your trouble.”

  He gave us a quick look over his shoulder as he walked back to his car, an impossibly shiny black sedan with a sunroof.

  After I closed the door Jack said, “I can’t believe that just happened.”

  “Oh, I can.” My father had left after one conversation, and that was never a good sign.

  ~~~~

  When the painting was finished, I finally approached the burned room. Right after the fire, Jack and Zane had taped plastic over the windows and the doorway. I pulled it back and stepped inside.

  Before, when I’d looked in this room with the investigator, all I’d seen was black. Now I saw the freshly painted walls were gray with spots where the fire had had a burst of intensity. Clumps of charred plaster were scattered on the floor, holes in the walls left thin backing boards exposed like ribs. The floorboards were blackened and dull; the ceiling was dark like a thunderhead. Springs popped out of the wingback chair like broken bones. Everything would have to be replaced.

  I truly was in over my head. I’d always felt pressure from my father, thinking my work wouldn’t be good enough—but now I felt like I might not be able to finish at all.

  I pulled the real estate agent’s business card from my pocket and stared at his name, embossed in gold ink, and wondered if I’d have to concede that my father was right. How could I ever finish the house now? Walls needed to be rebuilt. A floor needed to be replaced. How could I finish this in two more weeks?

  “Hey,” Jack said, coming up behind me. “You OK?”

  “Sure,” I lied. “Just wanted to take a real look around.”

  He slid his arm around my shoulders. “It’s going to be OK, you know.”

  I nodded, though right then that was the last thing I thought to be true.

  “I know some guys, friends of Buck’s. They can knock this out for you inside a week, and meanwhile you and I will tackle the rest.”

  I nodded again, and he kissed me on the forehead.

  ~~~~

  After lunch, Jack called me upstairs.

  “I found something for you,” he said. He was standing in the closet of the room we’d just painted—the one that looked like it hadn’t been used in years.

  “There was a box of Vergie’s things in here,” he said, placing a faded pink hat box in my hands.

  “Did you just find this?”

  “I’d honestly forgotten it was here,” he said. “I was going to clear my stuff out of the spare rooms and remembered there were some things stashed in the closets.”

  I thanked him as I opened the box.

  He shrugged. “I’m going to repair a few of the tiles in the bathroom. I’ll leave you to it.”

  I hardly heard him as I was too busy digging through the contents of the box. Photos, a couple of journals, and a stack of letters with a rubber band around them. I didn’t recognize the return address. I opened one of the envelopes, addressed to Vergie, and when I turned it over, I saw it was signed “Martine.”

  My mother. I read the first letter, dated a year after she’d left my father and me. In it, she talked about a trip she’d taken to New Mexico, how she’d traveled to Carlsbad Caverns and seen some unusual rock formation at a place called Plaza Blanca. She talked about working on a ranch, the crazy things the tourists did. She talked about when she’d be home next.

  Home.

  I opened one of the journals and saw it was Vergie’s, dated ten years earlier. I started to read but then stopped. I wasn’t sure how much I wanted to know. About her, about my mother, about everything. For so long, I’d wished I had the missing parts to the story, but now that it was here, it was too much. Too fast.

  The answers might not be details I wanted to know.

  I brought the box back to her old bedroom. Jack was in the bathroom, tapping tiles into place with a rubber mallet. The floor had been missing a few. They formed a simple pattern, tiny hexagonal t
iles that were popular in the 1940s, and were mostly white, with a smattering of cobalt. Jack must have gone out and found replacements without telling me.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Find anything interesting in there?”

  “Yeah, but I can’t look at all of it just yet. How’s it going in here?”

  “Lonely.” He popped a cluster of tiles into place and tapped them with a mallet, smiling sweetly at me. He carefully applied the adhesive, filling in a tiny area under the sink. The tiles matched perfectly.

  “That looks great.” I reached down and ran my fingers through his hair.

  “You’re distracting me, cher,” he said, slipping the tile into place.

  “Mm, that’s me. Very distracting.”

  “You have no idea.”

  Part of the allure of having a fling was having nothing at stake and no strings attached. It was safer that way. But now I felt something different. As much as I was willing myself not to, I was falling for him. Hard. I hadn’t really let myself believe it until now.

  He set another tile into place and tapped it with the mallet.

  “What do you think?” he asked.

  If the grout had been down, I couldn’t have pinpointed which tiles were replacements. “Homey. Vintage. Perfect.”

  He stood, brushing himself off. “Good.” He gave me a quick peck on the lips and said, “Now, git, before I forget how to do the rest,” and swatted me on the behind.

  “Is that any way to talk to your landlady?”

  He narrowed his eyes and pointed to the door. “Out, vixen. You want the grout to match, don’t you?”

  I grinned and backed out of the doorway. “Suit yourself.”

  ~~~~

  Outside, I walked around the house and made a list of repairs titled “Exterior.” There was this problem of landscaping that I had to tackle—my least favorite part of flipping. I was a jinx to all things verdant. Always had been. Planting flowers, bringing in hedges, planting trees—I could do it, but they could easily die before the house was sold, and there I’d be with a yard full of despair. Nobody liked to see dead flowers. It was off-putting.

  After scribbling my notes, the dog following at my heels, I went back inside to find Jack standing over the stove, tossing an arc of green and yellow vegetables in a skillet.

  “What’s all this?” I asked, leaning over his shoulder to peek.

  “I was starving,” he said. “Thought maybe you were too.”

  “Why haven’t I been letting you do this all along?” I said, and he smiled, laying two fish fillets into another skillet.

  He popped the cork off a bottle of white wine and filled two glasses to the top.

  “Are you trying to get me hammered?” I asked, taking the glass.

  “Cheers,” he said, clinking his glass against mine. “You look thirsty.”

  He slid his hand around my back, pulling me against him. He kissed me lightly at first, but as I tightened my arms around him, he parted my lips with his tongue. I tasted the sweetness of the wine, the saltiness of him, and he deepened the kiss until my fingers curled in his hair. When he finally let me go, I said, “What was that for?”

  He held my face close to his. “We’ve got some time,” he whispered. “That needs to simmer a while.”

  “Sneaky,” I said. “Luring me into the kitchen with the promise of dinner.”

  Sliding his hands beneath my shirt, he pulled me back against him, his lips grazing my neck. “We could work up an appetite,” he said, his hands slipping under my skirt. He took my glass and set it on the counter, then nudged me against the wall. The warmth of his hands on my bare skin made me shiver.

  He didn’t seem to think of this as casual any more, either. That thought terrified me.

  With his hips pinned against mine, he traced a line along my collarbone with his tongue. I kissed his rough cheek as his hands tightened around my waist. His touch made me lightheaded, like I was floating away into some point far on the horizon, and when the phone’s ringing pierced the air, I barely heard it at all, still raking my fingers through his hair, drawing him even closer.

  He pulled away from me, fumbling to reach my phone on the counter.

  “Leave it,” I said, sliding my hands along his chest, down to his hips.

  “Could be important,” he said, looking at the screen.

  “You answer it then,” I said, gripping him tighter. “My hands are full.”

  When he answered the phone, I caught his free hand and brought it to my lips, catching one finger in my teeth. He blinked sleepily, then said, “Just a minute,” and handed me the phone.

  I took it, trying to read his expression.

  My father’s voice boomed from across the Mississippi. “Well, at least someone’s answering your phone. Who’s that man?”

  “Hi, Dad,” I said. Jack frowned as he slid his arms around me again.

  “Who is that man answering the phone?”

  “He’s my carpenter.” Jack raised his eyebrow, nodding as he tugged at the buttons of my shirt. I brushed his hands away. He dropped them to my hips.

  “You sound out of breath.”

  “I was hurrying to take this call.” Jack slid one finger between my breasts, sending a shiver down my arm.

  “Why do you have a carpenter over there this time of day? Overtime will cost you a fortune. Is this that Jack person that was over there before?”

  I glowered, trying to keep my voice cool and even. Only my father could set me to fuming this fast. “This is a favor,” I said. “He was a friend of Vergie’s.”

  Jack stepped closer, leaning his body against mine. I rested my hand on his hip, trying to keep him at bay. My head was already spinning, and my father could sense weakness like a predator.

  “Nothing comes for free, Enza. But enough about this. I want to know why you sent my real estate agent away. A perfectly good real estate agent who was set to get that place on the market pronto. If you’re trying to piss me off, you’re doing a damn fine job.”

  Jack eased his fingers into my shirt, undoing the buttons.

  “I told you I could finish on my own.”

  I held the phone away from my ear as my father yelled. Jack jokingly shook his finger at me and whispered, “Bad girl. Very bad.” He slid his fingers down my arm and added, “Have to straighten you out later.”

  I swatted his hands away, turning my back to him. “Dad,” I began, but it was impossible to get a word in edgewise. He was in full tirade mode, bellowing about responsibility, and planning and anything else he could toss at me as an insult. The man seemed to think I was lacking in everything.

  “I just don’t understand what you’re thinking,” he said. “Every day you spend down there is money lost.”

  “Dad, relax.”

  “Don’t you tell me to relax. I knew you couldn’t do this on your own. I knew I should have stopped this a long time ago, before you got out of control.”

  “Now hang on,” I said. Jack took a step back as I got louder. “I can manage just fine. This place looks great, and it’s going to sell fast.”

  “Then sell it. As-is. Right now.”

  “That’s a mistake. We’ll get much more if you give me time to finish.”

  “You should have called in a crew to help you. We’re going to end up losing a ton of money on this, and it’s your fault.”

  “We’re not losing money,” I said. Jack’s eyes were wide. He turned back to the steaming skillets, leaving me to pace by the table. “I know what I’m doing.”

  “Clearly that’s not the case,” he said. “I’m not sinking one more day or one more dime into that place. It’s going on the market as-is, immediately.”

  My hands began to shake. “Dad, I didn’t want it to come down to this, but the fact is, Vergie left the house to me. Not you. You’ve got no right to sell it out from under me, and I won’t let you bully me into it. If this is how you feel, then I no longer work for you.”

  Jack turned back to me,
his eyebrows raised. There was silence on the other end of the line.

  “Did you hear me, Dad?”

  “After all I’ve done for you,” he said, “this is how you repay me.”

  “You’re the one making it this way.”

  He grumbled something I couldn’t hear, and then said, “If that’s the way you want it, then fine. But I’ll expect you to pay back every penny I’ve provided for these repairs, or else I’ll see you in court. I expect payment in thirty days.”

  “Dad, I hardly think that’s necessary.”

  “You have no idea what a disappointment this is,” he said, “but I can’t say I’m all that surprised.”

  Before I could answer, he hung up.

  I stared at the phone, gritting my teeth so hard I thought surely one would crack. I tossed the phone onto the table. “Bastard,” I said, and trudged onto the porch, letting the screen door slam behind me.

  The air was thick and stifling. June in Louisiana was as relentless as my father. I felt like crying, but I was determined not to let him get the best of me again. I was tired of crying. I hated crying.

  Jack followed me, and before the door even shut behind him, I said, “Please, just leave me alone for a minute.” If he showed his typical tenderness I would fall to pieces.

  My back was to him, but I could feel him staring at me. After a long moment, the door squeaked as he went back inside. Tears spilled down my cheeks, and I walked down the steps and into the yard. The grass was soft and damp against my bare feet, and part of me wanted to melt right into it like rain. When I stopped at the edge of the yard, I sat down, raking my hands through the lawn like it was the fur of some gigantic cat.