Bayou My Love: A Novel Read online

  “Enza,” he said. “Vergie’s granddaughter.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I said, shaking Buck’s hand.

  “Vergie’s granddaughter? Well, I’ll be. She was a sweetheart, all right.”

  Buck gave me a long look, but if he gave me enough of a discount on the lumber and supplies, I didn’t much mind.

  Jack read my expression. As we turned down the first aisle with baskets in hand, he said, “Buck’s my uncle.”

  I tossed in packages of nails and tubes of caulk. “Well, of course he is.”

  He laughed. “Small town, cher.”

  When he snatched a pair of pink gloves from a display stand and dropped them in my basket, I said, “Really?”

  “Thought you might need these,” he said with a shrug.

  “Very funny.”

  He laughed and put them back on the shelf.

  There were only a few other customers in the store, but they all stared in that way people in small towns do when they’re trying to be sneaky. I’d been in enough places like this to know that we’d be the subject of local scuttlebutt for days. At first I thought they were staring because they weren’t used to seeing a woman in a hardware store, but then I realized it was because I was there with Jack. I didn’t miss the winks that passed between a couple of the men, the whispers exchanged over paint cans.

  While I thumbed through the paint chips, Jack lit a clove cigarette, blowing smoke rings above his head. They widened as they rose, like wobbly halos. This kind of store was like a barber shop, where men came to stand around smoking and chewing tobacco, regaling each other with stories they’d heard about their friends through the week.

  “I figured you’d paint it all white,” Jack said.

  I held two chips up for him to see. “White’s too sterile. Colors make it feel like a home. Which do you like better?”

  He plucked a light blue one from my hand and smiled. “Virginia Beach. For Vergie.”

  A voice came from behind us, ragged and deep. “Well, look what the ol’ cat dragged up.”

  Jack’s eyes narrowed. The look that came over his face chilled me.

  A man with shaggy blond hair stepped around me and slapped Jack on the shoulder, though the gesture hardly seemed friendly. He was as tall as Jack but heavier and with broader shoulders. “Mayronne, don’t you know gals like this don’t belong in hardware stores?” He winked at me. “Didn’t anybody teach you what to do with a woman?”

  Jack ignored him, his jaw rigid as he stepped past him. “Come on, Enza.”

  “What? You too good to talk to me now?” the man said. He wore jeans that were snug and striped with grease, a plaid shirt and work boots.

  Buck leaned against the counter, pulling his hat down on his forehead. “Keep moving, Remy,” he called. “Ain’t nothing you need on that aisle.”

  Remy turned to me, his eyes roaming from my face to my feet. His grin made me bristle. “Sugar, you’re wasting your time with Mayronne,” he said, gesturing toward Jack. “Why don’t you let me show you how we have fun around here? You’re new here, non?”

  When he winked again, his lip curled into a sly grin that made me want to clock him. He had hollow brown eyes and a square face that looked like it had taken its share of punches. But he was handsome, no arguing that. I didn’t want to stir up trouble so early in the day, so I turned back to the display of paint chips like I was just brushing off another hackneyed pick-up line.

  Jack stepped between us, pausing inches from Remy’s shoulder. “Leave her be,” Jack said, his voice like gravel.

  “What’s the matter? Afraid she’ll prefer my kind of fun?” Remy looked at Jack with a cocky glint in his eye.

  Then Remy leaned closer to me, and said in a low voice, “Darlin’, let me show you why they call it the Big Easy.”

  I plucked a paint chip from the rack and brushed past him. “There’s a line I never thought I’d hear down here,” I said, and headed to the paint counter.

  “Well, ain’t you a firecracker,” Remy said. “That sass looks good on you, sugar.”

  “See you ’round, Remy,” Jack said, and strode past him to follow me. Buck watched from the front of the store. He pointed a finger at Remy, then motioned toward the door.

  “What?” Remy called. “Last time I checked, hardware stores were open to everybody.”

  “Then get what you need and get out,” Buck said, “before I regret making it that way.”

  “Well,” Remy said, looking my way, “I’m trying, ain’t I?”

  “You know,” I said, turning to him, “why don’t you take your—”

  Jack interrupted, saying to Remy in a cool, even voice, “You don’t want to start this here. Trust me on that.”

  Remy stared at him, stone faced.

  “Hey,” Buck yelled. “Am I going to have to drag you out of here my own self? I ain’t going to bother the sheriff with this nonsense again.”

  “Guess you don’t have what I need after all,” Remy said, turning toward the front of the store. “Watch out for those fires, Mayronne,” he said over his shoulder. “Be a shame if you got burned up in one.”

  I turned in time to see Remy’s smirk turn to a sneer as he ambled down the aisle to the door. On his way past the stock boy, he said, “What are you staring at?” and knocked a box of screws from his hand. They clattered as they tumbled across the floor.

  “Hey,” Buck called from the counter. “Next time I don’t ask nicely.”

  Remy laughed, shoving the front door so the bell clanged.

  The door slammed behind him, and Buck shook his head.

  “Sorry about that,” Buck said to me. “Every place has its trash. Can’t keep it hidden, no matter how hard you try.”

  “It’s OK,” I said as I handed him my credit card.

  “Sorry, honey,” he said, pointing to a sign beneath the cash register that said Cash or Check Only.

  I sighed. There was more than four hundred dollars’ worth of supplies at the counter and less than thirty in my wallet. “I don’t suppose there’s an ATM around here.”

  Jack gave Buck a nod, leaning against the counter. “Just add it to my bill.”

  “That’s not necessary,” I said.

  He smiled down at me. “You can pay me back later.”

  Buck pulled a receipt book with carbon paper from under the counter. After scribbling some numbers, he passed it to Jack to sign. “All right, son,” he said. “Y’all need a hand getting this in the truck?”

  ~~~~

  When we were out of the parking lot, I turned to face Jack.

  “What?” he said, his eyes on the road.

  “Who was that guy?”

  “Remy? Just a hooligan with nothing better to do.”

  “Seems like he knew you pretty well.”

  Jack raked his fingers through his hair. “Everybody here goes back a long way,” he said. “Hardly anybody ever leaves.”

  “What’s he got against you?”

  “He’s got something against everybody. He never could seem to keep on the right side of the law. Or the right side of anyone in general, for that matter.”

  He bristled, though he was trying to stay calm. There was something specific between the two of them, but it was clear that Jack had no intention of revealing it to me.

  “Buck, though,” I said. “I like him.”

  “Yeah, he and my aunt, Josie, took me in after my parents died.”

  “You’re lucky to have them.”

  “Don’t I know it. They should have turned me out a dozen times, but they never did.” He winked and said, “I was a bit of a troublemaker.”

  We sped along the road by the canal, windows down to let the marsh breeze in. With so many deep bends in the creeks and so many bayous, it seemed there was more water than land here. It was as if we were on a series of islands with secret connections.

  “You didn’t have to spot me back there,” I said. “I could have gone back later with cash.”

  H
e smiled that crooked smile. “Well that would mean losing even more time that you could have been painting or caulking or staining. And I wouldn’t want to get you behind schedule.”

  I stared off into the marshland. There was going to be trouble if he could read all of my thoughts that easily.

  Chapter 5

  Vergie’s house needed more than I could actually do in six weeks with my limited budget. The trick with a flip was that you had to fix the biggest problems that would be the deal-breakers for buyers, but not improve so much that you drew attention to dozens of smaller things that needed updating. Otherwise, you were in an endless cycle of repair that would burn through your budget.

  For example: Vergie’s front porch had three floorboards that were obviously new. If I repainted the entire porch floor, then the peeling banisters would look even worse, the blue exterior would seem more faded, and the front door would look dingy. Before long I’d be painting the entire exterior because of a few floorboards.

  My solution: Paint those new boards a matching color, then do a wash on the whole porch to blend it together. Scuff it up a bit to make it look “farmhouse chic,” and it would go with the rest of the exterior. Historic farmhouses were supposed to have scuffs and scratches—but they needed to look like those flaws had been protected like memories while the structure held its integrity. That way, the flaws were called “character” and not “disrepair.”

  My way took more creativity than your average contractor had. Others couldn’t be trusted with those details.

  We started with the downstairs study. My favorite part of the room was the floor-to-ceiling bookcases filled with Vergie’s books—travel guides, Creole cookbooks, and a slew of paperback westerns and romances. I pulled a book off the shelf and wondered if Jack had ever peeked inside one.

  Those built-in shelves meant less wall space to deal with. A blessing, because the peeling wallpaper had to go. I had chosen a neutral buttercream that wouldn’t make the ceiling look dingy and would be a nice complement to the dark wood of the bookcases and trim. The floral patterned sofa and green wingback chair had enough vintage appeal. They would stay.

  “Did you ever meet the friend Vergie was living with?” I asked.

  “Yeah, George I think was his name. Sweet old guy. Worked over at the jazz museum in New Orleans.”

  “Vergie moved in with a man?”

  Jack shrugged. “They’d been together a long time.”

  I’d always assumed she was living here alone, because she was alone when I visited in the summers. It had never occurred to me that she could have had a boyfriend.

  It made me happy for a minute, thinking of her with a beau.

  We moved the furniture into the center of the room and covered it with drop cloths. First we had to strip the walls of the green paisley wallpaper. Jack brought a radio from his bedroom and tuned it to the clearest station while I filled a bucket with water. I dunked a sponge into the water, then wiped down a small section of paper right by a seam. With a putty knife, I worked a seam loose and tugged until a chunk of damp paper peeled away.

  “That’s all there is to it, then?” Jack asked, grabbing the other sponge.

  Prying a corner loose at the chair rail, I pulled until the strip grew wider, crawling toward the ceiling like a serpent. “We’ll have to go as high as we can reach, and then go back around with the ladder to moisten the section above.”

  He carefully worked a seam open and tugged the paper. A chunk no bigger than his hand came off. He frowned and slid the putty knife under the damp paper to pry it loose again. “This is tricky.”

  “Here,” I said, wiping the sponge over another section. “Give it more water and pull slowly, at an angle.”

  He watched as I repeated the steps, then tried again.

  “Just don’t pull so hard the plaster comes off,” I said. “Water is your friend.”

  He smiled, loosening another corner. “I’ll try to be gentle.”

  We pulled the paper off in broad chunks and let it fall around our feet like shed leaves. It felt strange doing this in Vergie’s house. All my other flip houses were just studs, walls and floorboards. But here, it felt like I was stripping away the last pieces of Vergie.

  Jack hummed along with the radio, occasionally singing along in French. I loved those old zydeco tunes and could always tell the ones that were all about love—even if I couldn’t make out the words.

  The steady tearing of paper from plaster began to blend with the music. It was a rough sound, like fingers on a washboard. We’d started on opposite ends of one wall, and before long we were shoulder to shoulder. I pulled the last strip as high as I could, a couple of feet above me, but lost my balance and crashed into Jack.

  “Whoa,” he said, catching me in his arms.

  “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” he said. “We should take a break anyway.” One of his hands had landed on my waist. He placed his other hand in mine, singing along with the radio.

  Before I could protest, he was leading me around the island of furniture, nudging me into a two-step. The curls of wallpaper rustled under our feet.

  “We should really finish before the walls dry,” I said.

  His hand squeezed mine. I could feel his breath on my skin.

  “Don’t make me call my union rep,” he said. “Even line cooks get fifteen minutes every three hours.”

  He grinned when our bare feet thumped together.

  “I’m not very good at this,” I said, my cheeks burning.

  “You’re thinking too hard. And trying to lead.”

  “Right,” I whispered, stumbling against him again.

  “Let yourself go. One two, one two, one two.” He twirled me by the bookshelves that I hoped to God we would not have to paint. “You got to feel the rhythm, darlin’. You’re faking.”

  “I’m not faking.”

  “Believe me,” he said, his voice low, “I know when a gal’s faking.” His hand tightened on my back, pressing me so close that the length of my arm was right against his, my other hand resting on his shoulder.

  I liked the feeling of his arms around me.

  When he twirled me again, his hand tightened around mine, and he pulled me with such purpose that I thought I’d crash into him. I over-corrected, and we tumbled to the floor. Jack landed on top of me, his hands on either side of my shoulders, his face an inch from mine. He smelled like cloves and sawdust. I tensed beneath his weight, though the warmth of his chest against mine made my breath catch in my throat in the most delightful way.

  His eyes, blue-green as glaciers, were steady on mine.

  “Grace is my middle name,” I said. “Probably should have warned you.”

  He smiled. “I bet you think that was a move. But I swear, I’m not that creative.”

  I smirked, thinking of course he was. “Right, Mr. Mayronne.”

  His tone was playful. “I’m not some sleazy guy. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like you.” His breath tickled my neck, making me shiver. Surely he could feel that shudder against his own skin.

  For a second I thought he might kiss me, but he just stared at me, like he was trying to read my mind. I felt my cheeks blushing again, thinking of how his lips would feel against mine. It was hard to push those thoughts away with him resting on top of me, but I had to. My father used to say that all work and no play would have made someone a rich man. Even though part of me wanted to stay exactly where I was, I said, “All right, Casanova. Quit goofing around, and let me up, will you?”

  His lips close to my ear, he muttered something that sounded vaguely French.

  When he stood, he pulled me to my feet and plucked a strip of paper from my shirt.

  “You want to start washing the walls down?” I asked.

  He half-smiled, little crow’s feet forming at his eyes. “Yes ma’am.”

  I opened a tin of paint and stirred, thinking of the way his face looked only inches above mine. I was about to pour the paint in the tray wh
en I realized I’d opened the blue instead of the buttercream.

  ~~~~

  For two hours we painted, the radio fading in and out as the clouds passed overhead. Jack didn’t say much, just hummed along with the music like I wasn’t even there. I wondered if I’d hurt his feelings but didn’t want to make things more awkward by pressing him.

  After finishing the last wall, I stopped to take in the room. It was brighter all right. The afternoon sun streamed through the window, making the pale buttercream look more like a warm yellow.

  Jack was painting around the bookshelves, streaks of paint smeared across his nose and cheek, and a smaller brush sticking out of his back pocket. With short strokes, he flicked the brush back and forth like a small flapping bird. When he realized I was watching him, he stopped.

  “Something wrong?” he asked.

  “No, we finished quicker than I thought we would. You’re fast.”

  “Don’t go spreading that around. Folks might take it the wrong way.”

  If he could do other repairs that fast, and that well, I might make my deadline.

  He dabbed at a couple more spots, then stood back to survey his work.

  “Looks great,” I said.

  He shrugged, holding the brush out to his side. “Not my first rodeo.”

  I smiled. With most men, as soon as you expressed the slightest bit of doubt in them, they wouldn’t stop until they proved you wrong. I’d gotten myself out of a boat load of unsavory tasks that way. All it takes is, You think you can strip those shingles off all by yourself? or That bathroom demo might be more than one guy can handle. Works every time—but you’ve got to play your part too. You’ve got to express the right amount of gratitude.

  “Clearly I underestimated you,” I said. “It’s a good thing you were available to help.”

  “Well, that was our deal, right?” He wiped his hands on his jeans. “I’m good for my word.”

  He walked toward me, and I instinctively took a step back. Reaching past me, he laid his paintbrush in the tray.

  “I really make you nervous,” he said, resting his hands on his hips.