Bayou My Love: A Novel (6 page)

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.”

He
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 when 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.

“Not
at all.” Not for the reasons he thought anyway.

“Listen,
cher,” he said, “I’m sorry about before. I wasn’t trying to—”

“I
know.”

“I
mean, I don’t want you to think—”

“I
don’t. It’s fine. I haven’t danced in a long time.”

He
smiled and then, in response to my gaze, said, “What?”

“You’ve
got some paint here.” I touched my cheek.

He
wiped his face, but the streak was still there.

“No,
here.” I stepped closer and wiped the paint away with my fingers. There was
another spot on his neck and flecks in his hair. “A little here too,” I said,
sliding my thumb over his neck.

He
leaned over so I could reach.

“There,”
I said. “Got it.” But as I pulled away, he dropped his hand on my hip and
kissed me.

I
stood still, my hands by my sides.

He
stopped as quickly as he’d started, and eyes widened, took a step back.

Without
another thought, I kissed him back. He tensed as my hands gripped his waist.
For a second I thought he’d push me away, but then he slid his hands through my
hair and kissed me harder, his tongue parting my lips.

I
pulled away just to take a breath, and he tilted my chin back with his fingers.
His lips grazed my neck, and my heart pounded, as if willing him to slide his
tongue along every inch of my skin. His hands moved to my hips, and he nudged
me backwards, pinning me against the wall. I loved the way he tasted, loved the
way his chest felt pressed against mine.

I
laughed as his chin grazed my neck.

“Ticklish?”

“Nope.”

“Liar,”
he said, his voice husky as he tickled me with his scratchy cheek.

I
laughed harder, squirming in his grip.

His
lips brushed my ear as he said, “I like a woman who laughs in bed.”

Catching
my breath, I murmured, “We’re not in bed yet.”

His
finger slid along my neckline, and he said, “God, I love the way you say
yet.
”

The
tacky paint would surely stick to my clothes, but I loved feeling his tightened
muscles against mine, and I thought,
Hell, what’s one more coat of paint?

“You
feel incredible,” he said.

Before
I could say anything, he kissed me so hard that I felt the blood in my head
rush to my feet.

As
his hips pressed into mine, I felt him hard against me, and I wasn’t doubtful
any more. In that instant, he was all I wanted.

As
I reached for his belt buckle, he held my hand above my head. “Not yet,
darlin’,” he whispered, his lips brushing my ear. “We take things slow around
here.”