Bayou My Love: A Novel Read online

  He used my mother as a threat.

  Now, standing in this room that both was and was not Vergie’s, it made me wonder: Had Vergie ever tried to see me, or had she quietly given in to my father’s wishes? He could be cruel. He could sniff out people’s weaknesses and drive them away, and he could have easily done that to Vergie.

  I felt the pang that comes when you know you’ve done something terrible, and there’s no real way to fix it.

  I traced my fingers over a patchwork quilt that Vergie had almost certainly made. It was mostly blue and green, the log cabin pattern. The floorboards creaked when I walked across the room to the closet, where a half a dozen dresses still clung to wire hangers.

  “This seemed bigger when I was a kid,” I said.

  “Things always do.” Jack opened the drawer of the nightstand and handed me a key. His fingers brushed over my palm as he placed it there. “In case you want to lock yourself in.”

  “Thanks.” I slipped the key into my pocket.

  “I’ve got some leftovers downstairs,” he said. “Nothing fancy, but it’s better than going into town after driving all day.”

  “You’re cooking me dinner?”

  He smirked, heading back to the stairs. “I’m reheating your dinner. I’d take you to one of the local haunts, but I don’t think you’re ready for that crowd yet.”

  “Just as well,” I said. “The last thing I want to do right now is get in a car.” I followed him down the stairs, watching as the light caught flecks of red in his hair.

  In the kitchen, Jack pulled a chair out from the table and motioned for me to sit. The floors were scuffed from these same spindle-backed chairs being dragged out from the table over the years. It was a small kitchen, but it had a walk-in pantry with floor-to-ceiling built-in cabinets. You just didn’t see that any more.

  Jack leaned over, rooting through the refrigerator. The clatter of pots caught my attention, but what held it was the way his jeans strained ever so slightly on his frame.

  He put the pot on the stove and caught me staring.

  I quickly looked away, my cheeks burning.

  “Hope you like chili,” he said. “I cook pretty simple.”

  “I won’t complain when a guy’s cooking dinner.”

  He stirred the chili and pulled two beers from the refrigerator. “Care for a drink?”

  “After that drive today? You bet.”

  He hooked the caps together, popping both off at the same time like bartenders do when they’re trying to impress. He passed me the beer, clinked his against it and said, “Here’s to homecomings.”

  His knee brushed mine as he sat down across from me. His eyes looked as blue-green as the bottles, and I found myself staring too long again.

  “I know this must be little strange for you,” he said.

  “It wasn’t what I was expecting.”

  “Few things around here are.”

  The white cabinets were chipped and stained, but the appliances were still in good shape. The sink was original—a huge one that extended into countertops, with grooves to channel the water from drying dishes back into the basin. The old pie safe was still in the corner, where Vergie used to keep her pies, and later her cookbooks. Patterns of stars and triangles were punched in the tin panels.

  “I miss this place,” I said. “Didn’t realize how much until today.”

  “When’s the last time you were here?”

  “I was sixteen. I can’t believe it’s been fifteen years.” The dog, Bella, wandered back into the room and sat down at my feet. She stared at me, as if still deciding whether I was a threat. “I should have come back to visit more. I should have ignored my father.”

  He cocked his head.

  “Long story,” I said, waving my hand between us. “He forbade me to come back here, and I was too young and stupid to rebel.”

  “It’s hard to see what’s really important when you’re that age. Sometimes you still can’t see it when you’ve grown up.”

  “Is this where you tell me your family’s just as messed up as mine?”

  “My parents died a long time ago.”

  “Shit. I’m sorry. I only meant—”

  “It’s OK,” he said, getting up to stir the chili. “It just taught me you have to get your priorities in order. Be honest in your relationships.”

  “Did you grow up around here?”

  “Yeah.” He sounded relieved to change the subject. “Down in Terrebonne. Moved up here and went to high school, then left for college. I bounced around a little but came back here to work at the fire department a few years ago.” He filled two bowls with chili and brought them to the table.

  “I thought firemen lived in a firehouse.”

  “Only when I’m on duty. One day on and two days off.”

  “I’m lucky I came here on your day off. You would have given me a heart attack if you’d showed up in the middle of the night.”

  “You and me both.” He grinned. “You gonna start this work tomorrow, you say?”

  I took a long drink of the beer. Lately I could never turn off my working self—too much of my father had rubbed off on me. I thought about lumber prices when I sat down to dinner, estimated shipping costs when I lay down to sleep.

  “First thing,” I said.

  “You don’t waste any time, huh?”

  “Not with houses. All those people that told us time is money—they were right.” Already I was calculating how much paint it would take to cover the kitchen, how long it would take to refinish the hall floors. The old wallpaper needed to be stripped, and all the rooms needed a fresh coat of paint. People loved these houses with hand-carved woodwork because it made them feel like they owned a piece of dying history, but they expected a combination of historical and practical. They wanted hot tubs, updated kitchens and walk-in closets. I wasn’t planning to knock out walls, but this house needed a visual overhaul that would preserve the best parts of the architecture while bringing it into this century.

  “How’s the chili?” he asked.

  “Spicy.”

  “Need a glass of milk?”

  I laughed. “I haven’t been away that long.”

  He grinned, finishing his beer. “Tomorrow we’ll go to the hardware store across the canal. I know the owner.”

  I had a credit card with one of the regional chain stores but kept quiet. He was making a nice gesture.

  “Great,” I said. “I’m on a tight budget.”

  After that, a silence settled between us, like we were two teenagers on a blind date, neither knowing what to say. I tried not to stare at Jack, but it took all of my willpower to avoid his eyes. A friend once told me I was intimidating because I stared too long. It’s no wonder you don’t have a boyfriend, she said, You stare men down. Ever since then I’d made myself look away every so often.

  So I forced myself to break his gaze. He smiled once when he caught me looking at his hands, as if he knew I was imagining what they would feel like against my skin.

  I shook the thought away. I’d avoided getting too close to men for a long time, keeping them at a distance even as I let them live in my house. My penchant for distance came from my father. After my mother left us, he’d blamed it on her being heartless. He’d convinced me that if you let people get close to your heart, they’d hurt you. I was tired of being hurt, so I chose relationships that on some level I knew would only be short-term. They were predictable: I kept the guy close but not too close; I liked him, but I was detached. When we inevitably split, I was lonely but not heartbroken.

  The pattern I’d learned was this: When you let people get close, they love you, then they hurt you, then they leave you. When they disappear, they take a part of you with them, and you can never get it back. It had happened with my mother. It had happened with friends. Boyfriends. Vergie.

  If I’d spent more time with Vergie, I might be more trusting. Less cold. My father resented her because of my mother. I could see it in the way he bristled when
I mentioned coming here that last time when I was sixteen. Your mother turned her whole family against us, he’d said to me. Those bridges are burned.

  And because he was the one who didn’t leave, I trusted him.

  “Hey, Enza, you all right?” Jack Mayronne was staring at me like he thought I might break at any second.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I’m not good company tonight.” Those thoughts had been pushed so far down for so long that now it felt like they were tearing through my skin to get out.

  “It’s OK. I won’t take it personally.” His smile was warm as he stood and gathered up our dirty dishes.

  “I’m just tired. I think I’ll turn in for the night.”

  He placed the dishes in the sink and said, “So I’ll see you bright and early?”

  “Crack of dawn.” I pushed my chair under the table and took the half-empty beer with me.

  “Good night, cher. Sleep tight.”

  The dog whined, sitting on her haunches.

  “Bella will protect you,” he said. “It’s one of her favorite things to do.”

  “Good night, Jack.” I trudged up the stairs, hoping this wasn’t another huge mistake. The sound of his name on my lips had sent a shiver along my skin. Get a hold of yourself.

  The clatter of toenails on heart pine rang in my ears as the dog bounded up the stairs behind me. She paused at Vergie’s door.

  “Planning to spy on me?”

  Her ears pricked forward.

  “Git,” I said, turning the doorknob.

  She snorted and slinked back down the stairs.

  I peeled off my sticky clothes and tossed them onto the rocking chair. On the wall above it was a grouping of framed photos. In one black and white picture, a five-year-old version of me was riding a billy goat, one hand grasping the fur on its neck, one hand up in the air like a bull rider. Barefoot, my hair in pigtails. Closing my eyes, I could feel the coarse fur in my fingers. Harold the goat had served as a pony back then, bucking as I rode him around the yard. By the end of summer, I’d been covered in scratches from the blackberry bushes where he threw me. Even now, standing in the musty bedroom, I could feel the wind tickle my ears, hear the goat’s hooves pounding the dirt beneath them.

  I made up the bed with the sheets Jack had left stacked on the dresser and opened the window higher. I locked the door and laid the key on the nightstand. The cool sheets soothed me as I climbed into bed. I didn’t expect Jack to creep upstairs in the middle of the night, but still I listened for footsteps on the stairs. He seemed like one of the good guys, but how could I be sure? What if he had another key? I flipped off the bedside lamp and tried not to think any more about Jack, thinking instead of those long forgotten summers. With my eyes closed, I felt the salty breeze warm against my skin, heard the pounding of goat hooves in a thicket, growing closer, as if to carry me off into a distant memory.

  Chapter 4

  It took me a minute to remember where I was when I awoke. The bed felt funny, and there was barking—so much barking. I covered my head with the pillow, but the sound reverberated in my skull until I rolled out of bed. I pulled on the clothes I’d worn the day before and unlocked the door, giving it a shove when it stuck. After stopping in the bathroom to brush my teeth and pull my hair back, I hurried down the stairs. Judging by the way the light was streaming through the windows, I’d slept much later than planned.

  My eyes wouldn’t open in the harsh light. At the foot of the stairs, I collided with what I thought must have been the doorframe and cursed.

  “Hey,” a voice said. Big hands planted themselves square on my shoulders, and I yelped. Staggering backward, my foot banged against the bottom step, knocking me off balance. But a sturdy arm gathered me around the waist, righting me before I could land flat on the stairs.

  “Jesus,” I said. I looked up at Jack, who still hadn’t let me go. “You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

  “Sorry,” he said, not sounding sorry at all. “But you were headed for a crash landing.”

  I blinked at him. My mouth was open, but no sound came out.

  “Didn’t mean to scare you, cher.”

  My heart banged against my ribs so hard they hurt.

  “Come here, have some breakfast.” He dropped his arm, and I felt cold.

  I trudged into the kitchen where the table was set for two. Steam rose from a skillet on the stove.

  “You cooked breakfast?”

  “I thought you’d be tired after your trip.”

  “I try hard to be a morning person, but I’ve never succeeded.”

  He half-smiled. “So I see. I got up early, thinking you’d already be up and going. Then I figured I might as well make breakfast.”

  I was starving. And delighted. But I couldn’t let him think I was too easy to please.

  “Your bacon’s burning.”

  He went to the stove. “Sit,” he said, motioning toward the table. “I’ll get you a coffee.”

  The magic words. I sat.

  He eased the cup in front of me, moving slowly like you do with a stray you’re afraid might bite you.

  I inhaled the sweet scent of chicory. “Thank you.”

  Outside, the barks turned to howls. I rested my head in my hands.

  Jack Mayronne, unfazed by the barking, brought two plates of eggs and grits to the table. He wore a threadbare T-shirt that clung to his upper arms, as if unaccustomed to their size. I could see the chiseled muscles of his chest, and my eyes kept landing there as they tried to focus. I pried them away when I realized he was looking right at me.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I get a thousand-yard stare in the morning.”

  The look on his face said he didn’t believe that for a second.

  When he sat down, I saw the tattoo spilling out of his sleeve, winding along the inside of his arm. It looked like the long tail feathers of a bird. The darkness of the ink showed through his shirt at his shoulder, but I still couldn’t piece the image together.

  “What’s with the barking?” I took a sip of coffee and winced.

  “Bella’s out getting into trouble,” he said, pushing a bottle of cream toward me. “Probably chasing a squirrel or some such thing. Did you get some rest?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “What time is it?”

  “Nearly nine.”

  “Jesus. I should be painting by now.”

  He laughed, sipping his own coffee. “Take it easy. You just got here.”

  “I don’t have time to take it easy,” I said. My father would probably call in two days for a progress report.

  “You count nails instead of sheep at night, huh? Dream of spackling and whatnot?”

  I frowned, focusing on the coffee.

  “You’re in the Big Easy, now, cher. You got to slow down a little.”

  “I take it you have the day off.”

  When he grinned, his dimples showed. “I go in tomorrow. Today I’m all yours.”

  I sipped the coffee, hiding my smile. Jack could be a distraction, no doubt. But he could also be an asset. It would be a struggle to finish these repairs, and it would be foolish to turn away a capable man who was not only willing to work for me, but duty-bound to do it right.

  I just needed to stay focused. He was clearly used to his charm getting him anything he wanted.

  Fortunately I got the distinct feeling he could be charmed too.

  “How about that trip to the hardware store you promised?”

  He leaned back in his chair. “Sure, we’ll go down to Buck’s. He’s got everything you’ll need.” The glint in his eye suggested he thought I was in need of something you couldn’t get at any hardware store. But I couldn’t linger on that thought. With my father waiting for me to screw this project up, I had no time for distractions. No matter how chiseled and charming they might be.

  Replacing tile. Repairing floors. Repainting bedrooms. Those were the things I needed to focus on. With Jack around I was going to have to concentrate on the details to make sure my brain and
body were too tired to think about him. Those arms of his were nice to look at, but they also looked like they could operate a circular saw just fine.

  God, this was going to be exhausting.

  ~~~~

  Jack drove us in his pickup, claiming we could fit everything we needed in the back. Despite my protests, he drove with the windows down so the wind flapped my hair against my face. “You need to get used to the heat,” he’d said. The humidity was going to turn me into a frizzy mess—one more reason to hurry up and get out of Louisiana.

  “You look like you’re thinking pretty hard over there,” he said.

  I smiled. “Just thinking how fast we can do this, if you’re as good as you say you are.” My one worry was this: His movements thus far were as slow as honey dripping from a spoon. That could certainly be admirable in the right circumstances, but for repairs, he was going to have to speed up. I was accustomed to a tight schedule with no time wasted.

  The truck lurched as Jack shifted into fourth, then hung his elbow out the window. I caught him stealing glances at me while he was driving, and I couldn’t decide if I should be flattered. Was it crazy to drive around with a guy I just met, letting him get so close so quickly? My father would have told me this was a terrible idea, that men like Jack couldn’t be trusted. To him, Jack would be another broken guy taking advantage of my kindness.

  ~~~~

  Buck’s hardware store—simply called B’s—was tucked in a corner of the swamp off the main highway. Wood paneled with a green roof, it blended right in with the grove of trees surrounding it. In the dirt parking lot, a man wearing baggy jeans and no shirt was sitting on top of a rusted-out tractor, his feet propped up on the hood. He was reading a newspaper and gave us a lazy nod as we got out of the truck.

  Inside, Jack strode straight to the counter. “Buck, how you been?”

  Shaped like a pot-bellied stove, Buck had pink cheeks and a graying beard. His face was marked with hard lines. “Fine, you? Who’s your friend?”