Levi's Blue: A Sexy Southern Romance (26 page)

CHAPTER 27

EVIE

“WELL, I did it,” I tell Cherelyn when she answers the phone.

“Did what? Called Levi?”

Just his name is a slice to my heart, furthering an already bone-deep gash in it.

“No, not Levi. Dr. Chilton.”

She gasps.  “You did?”

“I did.”

“And?”

“Six days. My surgery is in six days.”  I’m surprised by the silence on the other end of the line.  “You there, Cher?”

“I’m here. I just… I don’t really know what to say.  You’ve waited so long.  And that’s so soon.  And if it works…”

“If.”

“It will.”

“We don’t know that.”

“It
will.
”

“Well,, I’m glad you know these things, Oh Mighty One.”

“I do.  You just need to trust me.”

“And get my hopes up only for them to be crushed? You can see why I don’t. I’ve had enough crushing blows lately to last a lifetime.”

“I know, but I have a really good feeling about this, Evie.”

“That makes one of us.” 

I don’t know what kind of feeling I have about it.  Excitement. Optimism.  Trepidation.  Dread.  Fear. 
Horrific
anxiety.  Or maybe some chaotic amalgamation of them all.

Just thinking about it, thinking about how
much
I feel on the subject, quickly makes me feel as though I might suffocate.  My breathing picks up, and my chest gets tight.

But then, out of nowhere, four little words break through the madness to give me oxygen, to settle me and steady me. To encourage me. 

You can do this.

It’s what Levi said to me when I was having second thoughts about the bayou, when I was telling myself that sometimes courage is the hardest thing in the world.  When I was inadvertently convincing myself that I couldn’t do it.

But Levi changed all that.

With those four little words, he turned the tides. Picked me up.  Got me in the boat. Even now, I feel his calming presence as if he were right beside me.

The problem is, can I trust it? Can I trust
him
?

“Do you know all of the details yet?”

Forcing myself back to the conversation, I take a deep breath, my head aching again.  “Well, my optic nerves were damaged as a result of the head injury and all the swelling after I got hit.  The nerves responded by creating scar tissue, and Dr. Chilton said this experimental procedure, which places engineered cellular implants that provide physical support to neuronal fibers and—”

“Lord have mercy, woman!  What in the world made you think I’d want to hear that gibberish? Was that even English?  I meant details about your hospital stay. When you go in, when you come out, can you have visitors. Shit like that.”

“Oh,” I say with a laugh. “Yeah, I’ll only be there overnight, just so they can monitor pressures and that sort of thing. I’ll be in bandages for a couple of days and then…hopefully I’ll notice some increase in visual acuity.”

“God, you talk just like a doctor.”

I laugh.  “Well, I’ve seen enough of them over the last decade or so. I guess it’s bound to rub off eventually.”

“It has. Trust me.
It has
.”

Neither of us says anything for a few seconds until I blurt, “I’m scared.”

She doesn’t reply immediately, which only adds to my anxiety.  “I know. I mean, I can imagine. This is…this is
huge.
And it could change everything.  Your whole life will be different. That alone is scary. But going through it if it
doesn’t
work… I get it, babe. I really do.  But no one is making you do it.”

“I know.  But I want to do it. I really do.  It’s just that…” I trail off, unable to articulate the strange mix of emotions swirling through me.

“Evie, you’ll make it no matter what. You’re gonna be fine.  You’re the type of person who gets knocked down, but then gets back up and beats the hell out of whatever knocked her down.”

I laugh. “You think I’m violent?”

She huffs. “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean.  I’m a great maker of lemonade,” I say, using an analogy that I’ve clung to for years.

“Exactly.  And you always
will be. 
This surgery, however it turns out, will be no different.  You’ll go in a winner, and you’ll come out a winner, either way.”

I inhale slowly and exhale just as slowly, feeling a little bit better.  “Go in a winner, come out a winner. Got it.”

“Good. Now, if you need another pep talk, call me. Don’t sit alone with your own thoughts. I know how dangerous you two are when you get together.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“That’s what I like to hear.”

I shake my head.  I’m sure she
does
like to hear that. 

********

The doorbell wakes me again.  I bolt upright, startled from another dream.  “You’ve gotta be
kidding me
,” I complain, flopping back.

This time, however, I hear the clonking and scurrying of Cherelyn making her way to answer it.  I grin when a loud thump is followed by a muttered, “Shit!”

The end table beside the sofa sticks out just a litttttle bit too much.

Although I’d like to go back to sleep, after yesterday’s early delivery, I find that I’m wide awake now, anxiously awaiting whatever is at the door.

It might not be for me. It could be a delivery for Cherelyn. Maybe she ordered something.  That’s entirely possible.  But my gut tells me it’s for me. And that it’s from Levi.

Less than five minutes later, I hear the sock feet of my roommate shuffling down the hall toward my room.  She opens my door, stifling her yawn with her hand, I assume, and tosses something solid onto my bed.  “It’s for you.”

With that, she closes the door again and shuffles back the way she came.

I crawl to the end of the bed and feel for what she tossed.  I pick up a cool, smooth object and roll it in my hands, examining it with my fingers.  It’s shaped sort of like a banana and its center is hollow.  Frowning, I feel again, more carefully this time, taking in every tiny detail.  I finally realize what it is.

A kayak.

Up until yesterday, I felt as hollow as this kayak, but today…today I feel a little less empty. There are no tears this time. Just a little smile as I remember Levi rowing me down a café au lait river in New Orleans.

********

Day three begins in the exact same way the previous two have—with an early morning visitor.  This time, when I hear the bell, I leap from bed and make my way as carefully as I can to the door. I don’t even wait to see if Cherelyn is here and if she’ll answer it.

“Who is it?”

“Delivery,” comes the short answer in a deep voice.

I snap open the locks and smile.  “Good morning.”

There is no response. 

“Hello?”

Still no response.

That’s when a delicious scent wafts up to tickle my nose.  I bend and feel around in front of the door. Just to the right of me is a big, square box.  I lift it carefully, noting its not-too-heavy weight, and I bring it to my nose.

I inhale.

I smile.

I’d recognize that smell anywhere.

Beignets.

“Hello?” I call again. 

Still there is no answer.

I back into my apartment, moving slowly as I think about that one word—delivery—and the voice that said it. I pause before closing the door, inhaling again.  I can’t help wondering if I really do smell the subtle musky scent of the woods over the beignets or if it’s just my imagination.

********

Morning number four brings another delivery.  I’m already awake when the bell rings.

“Who is it?”

“Delivery for Ms. de Champlain.”

I grin, wondering if this is going to be an every day type thing and what he’ll send each time.

I swing open the door, and a small box is thrust into my arms. 

“Have a nice day.”

“Oh, you, too,” I rush to say, the delivery person’s footsteps already receding.

I take the box back inside and pull off the top.  I reach inside, and my fingers meet a cloud of what feels like the stuffing that my mother used to put inside my Easter basket when I was a kid. It’s dry and light, sort of like dead grass.  I take a moment to sniff, to note any fragrance that might explain the substance, but there is none.

“What the hell?” I mutter, searching through the pile for what might be buried within it.  But, as far as I can tell, the box is empty but for the fluffy packing.

Luckily, I hear Cherelyn’s door open, and she makes her way right to me where I stand in the living room.  She stops just shy of my right shoulder, and I imagine her bending down to look into the box.

“Is that a box of Spanish moss?”

“Ahhhh Spanish moss,” I say, comprehension dawning on me.  My lips curve into a lopsided smile. “Yes, I imagine that it is.”

“Why would he send you a box of Spanish moss?”

“So I’d know what it feels like.”

“Weirdo,” my roommate mutters as she walks off toward the kitchen.  I don’t follow her. Instead, I put my hand back inside the box and let the thin strings of moss tangle around my fingers.

“No, not weird,” I whisper. “Not weird at all.”

********

On morning number five, I’m up and racing to the door before the bell can sound a second time.  Like Pavlov’s dogs, I’m quickly becoming conditioned to receiving deliveries first thing in the morning.

I streak through the apartment, squealing when Cherelyn rounds the corner and runs into me. We both giggle.

“These aren’t even
for me
and I’m excited,” she declares, delight evident in her tone.

“Who is it?” I call.

“Delivery for Evian de Champlain,” a young male voice recites.

“Wonder what it will be today,” I muse.

I hear Cherelyn click open the little brass covering to the peephole and then let it fall back shut.

“I don’t know, but it looks like a bike messenger.”

“Delivering? Or is that the present?”

“If you had a boyfriend that sent you another man as a present, I’d fight you for him.”

“The boyfriend or the other man?”

In her pause, I can almost hear her shrugging. “Hell, I’d take either one.”

I nudge her toward the knob and locks. “Well, open it, woman. I need to know!”

She flips the first lock and then pauses again. “You know, maybe I should be collecting these and throwing them right in the trash. I mean, if you know you can’t forgive the guy, what’s the point in accepting his gifts?”

It’s my turn to pause as I mull over her question.  When I can’t come to a conclusion that would satisfy either of us, I push her out of the way. “Move it!  I’m answering the door.”

I feel for the remaining locks, flicking them open and twisting the knob. 

“Evian de Champlain?”

“Yes, that’s me.”

“Delivery for you, ma’am. Can you sign here?”

Cherelyn pushes in beside me, ostensibly intercepting the clipboard. “You can give her the package, and I’ll sign that. She’s blind.”

“Oh, sorry,” comes the guy’s uncomfortable response.

I hate that. I always have. The way it makes people so uncomfortable to learn that I’m blind, like they’ve somehow done something wrong or something to offend me.  It makes
me
feel bad that I make
them
feel bad, even though it’s not purposeful. That’s just the way this works. I feel bad, they feel bad. Everybody feels bad.  There’s no changing it, but sometimes humor helps to ease the tension. 

“Don’t apologize. I don’t wear a sign, although maybe I should,” I tease.

I’m greeted with an uneasy, obligatory laugh and I imagine that the delivery kid can’t get out of here fast enough.

I know the moment Cherelyn finishes signing. The guy mumbles a garbled, “Thank you. Have a nice day,” and then practically runs away.

“Scared off another one. You’re getting really good at this,” Cherelyn says as she shuts the door behind us.

“All in a morning’s work.”

“Well, open it up. Let’s see what he sent today.”

Pleasure is rippling through me as I break the thin bands of tape that secure all four sides of a flat, rectangular box.  When I pull off the top, I feel tissue paper covering something soft, like a bundle of material.

I push the folds of paper aside, and scent curls up toward my nose in long, lazy invisible wisps. I smell Levi. Heady yet subtle, his musk unmistakable.  But it’s not just Levi I smell.  I also smell paint, an aroma that’s as familiar to me as coffee and chocolate and smoke.  It’s a unique combination, one that evokes a barrage of imagery.