Bayou My Love: A Novel (3 page)

“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.

“Most
of her stuff is still here,” he said. “She rented it furnished, and I travel
light.”

I
felt a pang of guilt. How could I not know she was living some place other than
her home?

“So
you’re Martine’s daughter, then?” he asked.

I
stopped. “How do you know my mother?”

He
turned toward me, biting his lip like he wished he could take those words back,
then said, “Just from Vergie talking about her sometimes.”

The
thought of him knowing about my mother left me dumbstruck. I followed him
through the house in a trance, sorting out what was real and what was not.

He
led me through the living room, the back bedroom and the sitting room, and I
tried to remember the last time I talked to Vergie. The few times I’d prodded
my father to explain why I couldn’t see her any more, he had quickly changed
the subject. After my mother left, the summer visits had stopped. Why had I cut
all ties simply because my father had? At sixteen, I could have called her. I
could have written letters. I could have stood up to my father.

Why
had I never stood up for what I wanted?

The
dog was at my heels, her eyes fixed on me.

“Don’t
mind Bella,” Jack said. “She’s just trying to herd us.”

“What?”

“It’s
what old swamp dogs do. Stop you from getting lost forever.”

Her
bobbed tail wagged.

I
followed Jack as he climbed the stairs, distracted by the sway in his shoulders
and his hips. He had an easy way about him, but he seemed as solid as the earth
beneath us. His hands were solid too—those of a man who knew exactly what he
was capable of, exactly how he could mold bare materials into what he wanted.

I
loved feeling hands like those on my skin.

“There’s
a good bit to be done here, I guess,” he said, pausing in the upstairs hallway.
“I helped her with small things, like the cabinets and floors, but I didn’t get
into any big projects.”

The
banister was cool under my fingers. It was as big around as my thigh, carved in
a Victorian style with simple lines. The spindles were square, not those dainty
round ones that most people went for.

“I
could probably be done in a couple of weeks,” I said, peeking into the first
upstairs bedroom. The bed was made up with a patchwork quilt, an antique desk
and chair by the window. The curtains rippled like water in the breeze. It
looked like it had been empty for years.

He
laughed, shaking his head. “A couple of weeks? You won’t find people around
here who’ll work that fast.”

“No
people. Just me.”

He
stopped cold. “You’re going to fix all of this by yourself?”

“Sure.”
I wandered through the next room, a makeshift study and library. When I turned
back to him, he was slack-jawed.

“What,
you’ve never seen a woman fix a house?” I get a kick out of watching people’s
reactions when I tell them what I do. It was like the idea of a woman wielding
a hammer and paintbrush for purposes that didn’t include hanging pictures or
painting with watercolor was too much to fathom. “I do this for a living,” I
said.

His
mouth curled into a crooked smile that must have broken half the hearts in the
parish. “Guess they don’t make many like you any more, either,” he said.

“I
was sort of a tomboy growing up.”

“Could
have fooled me.” His eyes drifted down to my feet, then back up to meet mine.

That
look made me more aware of how my clothes stuck to me in this relentless heat.
Not expecting to meet a soul today, I’d thrown on a thin camp-style shirt and
an old pair of jeans with holes in the knees. Clothes were one of those details
Dad claimed I overlooked. I rolled the sleeves up higher and placed my hands on
my hips, staring him down.

“I
wouldn’t have taken you for the manual labor type,” he said.

“I
still like to get dirty. Some things never change.”

He
smiled and motioned for me to follow him down the hall. I noted the cracks in
the plaster, the ancient light fixtures with their painted glass, the way
Jack’s broad shoulders strained the seams of his shirt.

His
playfulness was disarming. He was so good-natured, even when he was about to be
evicted. It felt easy to be with him, and for me that was rare.

“I
think I have the answer,” he said, leading me toward the back bedrooms. “It’s
win-win. You’ll like it.”

“Go
on.” One of the remaining bedrooms had a bed and dresser, an antique highboy
with ball-and-claw feet. The last room was empty of furniture but full of
boxes.

“How
about I stay here while you do whatever work you need to do, and then you can
turn me out into the cold, gator-infested bayou. While I’m here, I’ll help you
with the repairs. I’m pretty good with hammers and miter saws and whatnot.”

“What
makes you think I need any more hands?” Especially those hands, which I too
easily envisioned gripping my hips instead of a hammer.

He
led me back down the stairs. “Simple math. If, instead of you doing all this by
yourself, you have me, then the work gets done twice as fast.”

“Assuming
you can take orders. And assuming your work is top-notch.”

“Well,
of course. And I figure you’re going to need somebody who knows all the locals—what
if you need a plumber or an electrician? You need a sub-contractor who can tell
you who’s reliable and who’s gonna rip you off.”

“Good
point, but there’s still one problem. I was going to stay here while I worked.”

He
raised an eyebrow.

“I
can’t stay here if you’re here. And hotels will cost a fortune. That’s not in
the budget.”

He
nodded toward the upstairs. “You can stay here. It’s not like we’re short on
rooms.”

I
laughed. “Stay here with you? Not a chance.”

“What?
I won’t bite you, cher.” He walked back onto the porch, pulled a cigarette from
his pocket and lit it with a match. “Miss Vergie trusted me. You can trust me
too.”

“Bless
her heart, but Grandma Vergie was a little bit nuts,” I said.

She
used to take in strays too—hell, that’s probably where I got my inclination.
She was one of those kind souls who never locked her doors and always trusted
everybody to do right. I was slower to trust people and let them get close. I’d
learned over and over that when you let people get close, they hurt you. They
leave you. Friends said I was guarded, but to me that was just watching out for
yourself. It made life less painful.

He
shook the match, and the scent of sulfur and cloves filled the air between us.
“I’ll make you a deal,” he said, holding his hand up in a Boy Scout salute. “If
I misbehave, you can banish me to the couch at the firehouse. That’s incentive
enough to be good, believe me.”

“The
firehouse?”

He
nodded. “Engine Six. On the other side of the canal.”

“I
wouldn’t have taken you for a firefighter.”

He
stroked his chin. “Why, because of my squeaky-clean exterior?”

I
tried to picture him in a fire truck. He seemed too laid back to squeeze
himself into a state-regulated uniform.

“Can’t
a guy look a little rough around the edges on his day off?”

When
I didn’t reply, he said, “I get it. You think I’m just another hooligan trying
to pull a fast one. You want to see my shield?”

“Actually,
I do.”

He
pulled his wallet from his back pocket and flipped it open. A flash of brass
caught my eye.

“Still,
I don’t even know you,” I said, leaning against the porch rail. “I’m not in the
habit of moving in with strange men.”

“Well,
I’m not accustomed to taking in strange women,” he said. “But I’m willing to
concede in order to help both of us out of a sticky situation. This way, you
get to do your job, and I keep a roof over my head.”

“Can’t
you stay at the firehouse for a few weeks?”

His
eyebrows rose as he took a long drag on the cigarette. “It’s kind of crowded
right now,” he said. “Got a few guys in the dog house and such. Happens about
this time every year.”

“In
June?”

“I
don’t understand it, either.”

“You
have a copy of the lease?” I asked.

“Sure,”
he said. “It’s around here somewhere.”

“I’d
like to see it.”

He
nodded, crushing the cigarette into the step. In the kitchen, he rooted through
a drawer by the stove.

“I
can’t do this if I don’t know anything about you,” I said.

“OK,”
he said, thumbing through the papers. “Fair enough.”

“I
have questions.”

He
smiled. “I have answers.”

I
poured myself another glass of water. He stepped away from the drawer just long
enough to pull a chair out from the table for me, like it was a reflex. The
gesture struck me as tender, and then I realized why he seemed familiar.

“You
were at the funeral,” I said. Even though I’d banished the details from my
mind, at unexpected moments, they would come pouring back.

He
glanced up from the stack of papers and fixed his dark blue eyes on me. I
remembered those eyes.

“You
gave your seat to two little old ladies,” I said.

He
cocked his head and smiled. “You’re the one that ran out in the storm. I was
talking to your friend before she went after you.”

I
cringed at the memory. I’d been overwhelmed thinking about my mom leaving,
Vergie dying and the possibility of running into my mother there. I’d dashed
out of the church into a thunderstorm and stood on the lawn in the pouring rain
until my friend Kate came out and dragged me to the car.

“You
cut your hair,” I said. “I didn’t recognize you.”

He
shrugged. “It’s OK. I didn’t recognize you dry.”

“I
can’t believe it’s you,” I said.

“I
believe you had some questions for me.”

It
was easy to see why Vergie liked him. He was one of those guys who made you
want to bake him a cake, who made you smile at bad pick-up lines. Some people
just have a way about them that makes the world seem a little brighter. Vergie
had also been one of those people.

“So
you’ve been working for Vergie since you were seventeen?” I asked.

“Off
and on.” As he leaned against the table, it squeaked under his weight. “Started
out doing odd jobs, then did more repairs when I got older. I’d come by and
check on her a couple times a week and do whatever she needed done.”

I
watched his eyes to determine if he was lying. I was a good judge of character,
but I’d been wrong once or twice, and it had made me gun shy, particularly when
it came to smooth-talking, good-looking men.

“How
long have you worked for the fire department?”

“Six
years.”

“Why
did you come check on Vergie every week?”

“She
looked out for me,” he said. “So I looked out for her. It’s what we do around
here.” He handed me the lease. “Here you go.”

I
turned to the back page and found Vergie’s signature. Indeed, he had paid in
advance. I searched for a clause that would void the lease upon the landlord’s
death, but there was none.

If
what Jack said was true, how had I never seen him at the house all the summers
I’d visited? He couldn’t have been more than a couple of years older than me,
and I would have remembered a teenage guy hanging around the house—especially
when I was so boy-crazy I could hardly see straight.