Jolie Blonde (Vigilare Book 3) (32 page)

Lon watches him pull away
—Figure out what?—
the question on the tip of his tongue, his pride will not allow him to release it. “If not Shaw, then who? Dr. Godfrey?” Lon expels in a whisper, completely disbelieving the premise that the round-faced hematologist would be a threat to anyone.

When your hair turns to silver

I’ll still call you Delta Flower

Jolie Blonde, my Cajun baby

I wanna grow old with you

Three years later, on the outskirts of New Orleans (the midway point between the country and suburbia), guests continue to navigate their vehicles up a long, elegant drive lined with imposing cedars, oaks and magnolia trees. The occasion, a wedding reception, coupling as a housewarming party for newlyweds Mr. and Mrs. Alonzo Geoffrey Castille Jr.

Alonzo Sr. stands beside Lon under a large shady oak, the tree providing a moment of
shelter
from the crowded backyard full of family, friends and work cohorts.

“Hard work enertainin’ folks, huh, son?” Alonzo understands his temporary reticence.

“So long as she’s having a good time, it’s worth it, Pop.” Lon gestures toward Brianna who enjoys meeting and greeting guests.

“Who wouldn’ have a good time showin’ off dis big, boun’iful home.” Alonzo looks around at the newly constructed French Colonial style house. It’s stately presence, large pillars, downstairs veranda and wrap-around upstairs balcony with accenting French doors, enough to entice any domestic’s dream. “Ya outdone yerself, son. Mama an me so proud of ya.”

“Thanks, Pop. That means a lot to me.” Lon smiles at him, thankful for the acknowledgment. “I wish you and Mama would move into the guesthouse.” He nods toward the quaint two-story loft on the other side of the main house separated by an architecturally pleasing stone carport.

“Preciate da offer. But Mama an me is mos’ comfy out on da bayou.” Alonzo spits some chaw juice out the side of his mouth onto the ground, having looked around for Winona, he is in the clear to do so. “Don’ tell yer mama I snuck a chew. ‘Now you can’ be goin’ up der wid all dem engineer an lawyer folks a chewin’ an spittin’,’ she said.”

“You’re fine, Pop. The only reason we have this home and these engineer and lawyer friends is because you and Mama put me through school to get here,” Lon assures. “You can do whatever you want. In front of whomever you want.”

“How ’bout Jolie Blonde? She like it here? In dis great big ol’ home?” Alonzo’s eyes trail about the twenty-plus acres, complete with a lake behind it.

“She likes it for Braydon. Big backyard. No busy streets or traffic to worry with.” He shrugs. “But she says she was just fine in our little starter home near campus. I think she got used to the closeness.” Lon smiles with the thought of how tight his family of three has become.

Alonzo nods, gazing at the roomy house. “Yep, bet a person could get lost up in dat chateau.”

“Just trying to manage it all, Pop. Starting a family, building a home…growing up, I guess.” The now twenty-five-year-old Lon considers how fast the time has passed since his and Brianna’s carefree youth.

“You gonna grow dat fam’ly bigger?” Alonzo grins hopefully.

Lon returns his affection. “We’re talking about it. Brie needs a little more time. Get her feet underneath her at the firm and all. She’s bound and determined to make partner by the end of her first year. Says she needs a ton of trial experience to advance to the justice department.” Even though Lon is disappointed that this will often cause her to be away from home and family, his delivery is filled with pride at her determination. “She won’t be happy until she’s a prosecutor.”

“Still tryin’ ta make up fer her parents’ death, huh?”

“Murder…her parents were murdered, Pop. There is a difference,” Lon clarifies. “I understand. And I try to be as supportive as I can. I just don’t want her to run herself ragged. I get it. She figures if she can’t get justice for her parents, she can help others. But it doesn’t matter how many other people she helps, it’s never going to bring her parents back. It’s never going to satisfy that need of atonement within her.”

“An yer ’fraid she might lose herself tryin’.”

Lon watches her reverently as she smiles and laughs with guests. Braydon, three years old now, makes a beeline toward her. She scoops him up in her arms, spinning him around, much to his delight and hers. Lon’s heart, as it always does watching his wife and child together, hastens its beat—proud, forceful and completely filled with adoration.

“I’m hoping he’ll give her a reason to always remember how to get home,” he plays off of Alonzo’s
lost
terminology.

“He’ll give her an you all sorts a reasons ta do mos’ anyting, son,” Alonzo encourages. “I see she let her hair grow back nat’ral.” He further comments on Brianna’s hair—long, wavy and blonde—as it used to be in her childhood.

“Yep,” Lon agrees, although fibbing. She colored her hair blonde for the occasion. The auburn strands, her new norm ever since her pregnancy with Braydon, a fact he figures best well kept.

“She shore is a purdy jolie blonde.” Alonzo winks at his son, the comment paying homage to their youth when he used to say the same thing, enticing Lon. “Loved her all yer life, haven’ ya?”

“Can’t remember a time I didn’t, Pop.”

Snapshots of their first day of kindergarten flash through Lon’s mind. He was just a bayou kid going to a private school in town, deeply out of his element and ready to plead with his parents to let him attend school locally where he would surely fit in better and have more fun. Then, she walked in, blonde pigtails and the boldest emerald green eyes he ever saw.

‘Hi. My name’s Brianna, but you can call me Brie,’ she introduced herself very matter-of-factly. Her introduction coupled with sharing a piece of her cherry flavored Hubba Bubba, taking the seat beside him, she inadvertently helped herself to his young infatuated heart.

Alonzo notices the shift in Lon’s body language from relaxed and open to rigid and inspecting as Johnny Vito arrives at the celebration. “Shame you two grew ’part. Never did get why dat was?” His father’s prodding is genuine. “Used ta be so close.”

To avoid getting into all of the bizarre details, Lon tells a half-truth, “It’s a tale as old as time, Pop. Two friends. One girl.” In his mechanical engineering mind, he reasons the strength of a simple
triangle
when it comes to construction, using his newly built home as an example
.
“Great for supporting structures. But completely destructive in love.” He considers the irony.

“You sayin’ Johnny got da hots fer Jolie Blonde?” Alonzo questions, disbelieving, wondering if he’s deciphering Lon’s love triangle bit correctly.

“Yep,” he answers bitingly as he watches Johnny walk to Brianna, greeting her with a hug and holding on a little too long for his liking. “Excuse me, Pop.” Lon takes off in their direction, uncomfortable with Johnny being around Braydon in any capacity.

“Hmm!” Alonzo pipes under his breath, contemplating the new details. “Didn’ see dat comin’.” He shrugs, considering Brianna’s attractiveness. “But maybe I shoulda.” Out of his periphery, he notices a familiar form heading towards him. “Now I do see dat comin’ an dis ain’ gonna be good,” he mutters to himself, clearing his bottom lip of chewing tobacco, taking a nice, long swig of spiked sweet tea, attempting to get rid of the evidence before Winona gets to him.

As Lon approaches Brianna and Johnny, he signals to the band discreetly. Setup on the bandstand under a shady grove of magnolia trees, the five-piece ensemble transitions into the classic Cajun waltz: “‘Jolie Blonde, ma chère ’tit fille. Tu m’as quitté pour t’en aller…’”

Johnny, who works under the umbrella of a paralegal for Brianna’s firm, one specifically assigned to her, cannot leave work at the office. He and Brianna are in mid-conversation about a pressing case when she hears the band start up in three-four measure with her once previously loathed theme song. A provocative grin spreads across her face as her eyes search for Lon, having grown quite fond of the favorable moniker over the years.

Lon draws near, relieving her arms of Braydon—a safety precaution in his own mind. Kneeling down, he places the boy soundly on his feet. Pointing in the direction of his mother and father, Lon serves two purposes—getting his firstborn out of Johnny’s company and rescuing his father from a lashing at the tongue of his mother.

“You see Pee-Paw over there under that sprawling oak tree?” Lon asks in a most gentle voice, one reserved for his son.

Braydon nods, looking back at his spitting image, dark black hair and olive skin, his steel blue eyes wide and happy, feeling a
special
assignment coming on.

“Run over there and wrap your arms around Mee-Maw. Tell her she’s the most beautiful mee-maw in all the land,” Lon coaxes.

Braydon smiles, pointing at his father’s watch, bargaining his insistence to be timed. Developing a competitive streak, anything afoot becomes a race.

“Ready. Set.” Lon grins affectionately at his mini-me (sporting the same casual wedding reception style of his father—white button-down, black dress pants and cummerbund, a black bowtie unfastened and slung about the front of his shoulders) who preps himself in a runner’s stance awaiting take off.

“Go!” Brianna joins Lon in unison and in his enthusiasm, encouraging their son.

By the time Braydon speedily makes it to his mee-maw, he has forgotten about his timekeeper. Winona greets him with an embrace, hoisting her treasured grandchild upon her hip. Alonzo quickly joins in the doting session, his unsightly habit of chewing tobacco the furthest thing from Winona’s mind. He glances in Lon’s direction, a faint and thankful nod extending.

Lon winks back before turning his attention to his newlywed. “Care to dance,
Jolie Blonde,”
the words escape his deep voice in a playful manner, absolutely no hint of a question in his inflection as he scoops her hand up in his and leads her toward the bandstand, taking no time to greet Johnny.

“Good seeing you, too, bro,” Johnny calls after Lon, perturbed by his snubbing.

Draping her left arm about Lon’s broad shoulder and proffering up her right hand to be held and guided in his, Brianna nestles easily against his form as he leads her in the upbeat waltz. Tall and lean as usual, his chest having lost some girth since his college days, she thinks how he could still
stop traffic.

Her left hand sweeps through his thick, dark hair until it lands contentedly at the base of his neck, her elbow coming to rest atop his shoulder. The action causes Lon to pull her closer, pressing the palm of his right hand more possessively into the small of her back. He meets her eye to eye, their faces mere inches apart as they float around the dance floor—their first dance as husband and wife.

Age, accompanied with mutual maturity over their years together, has led to a secure bond. Their education and top-notch fields of employ have filled each one with a confidence that supercedes their adolescent reluctance. Even the addition of Braydon—making them a family—contributes to the comfortableness with which they wear their own skin.

Having escaped a turbulent pubescence only to enjoy a seemingly sane adulthood together provides each a badge of honor to live an unapologetic life. They indulge in playful provocation at any opportunity, the way happily married couples do.

“Surely you’re not still jealous over Johnny Vito?” Brianna shoots him a challenging grin as if to say
I married YOU, didn’t I?

“Jealous,
Mrs.
Castille?” He is sure to accentuate the fresh prefix. “No, I am not.” He returns her mischievous smirk. “Protective? Yes. You know I don’t trust him. And you shouldn’t either.” His gaze shifts from lively to serious.

“We work together, my sweet…handsome…loving man.” She works him over well, each adjective split up with a pouty and tender kiss to his lips, their faces still lingering one over the other intimately, despite the gathering crowd who watches dotingly as they share the customary premiere dance. “I have to trust him.” Her hand at the nape of his neck gently kneads the taut musculature there.