Loving Laura (The Cantrelle Family Trilogy)
Book #1, Cantrelle Family Trilogy
By
Patricia Kay
Copyright © 2012 by Patricia Kay
These stories are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Patricia Kay.
Cover art by Web Crafters
Editing by Patricia Kay
A note from the author . . .
Dear Reader,
LOVING LAURA, first published under my Trisha Alexander pseudonym by Silhouette Special Edition as WHEN SOMEBODY LOVES YOU, was my fourth published book (my second for Special Edition) but it is truly the first "book of my heart." I dreamed about this story before I ever wrote it, "saw" the first scenes in my mind the way you see a movie, and felt as if I knew these characters as special friends. I also loved (and still love) the Louisiana setting. My husband and I made many trips to the area so that I could get the right "feel" in the scenes, and I grew to really appreciate the Cajun people and their approach to life.
I'm so excited to be able to give this story new life as an e-book and doubly excited because it's just the first book in a trilogy about the Cantrelle family. The Cantrelle family saga will be continued in Book #2, NEEDING NICOLE and Book #3, EMBRACING ELISE -- both of which will be available in the coming months. I hope you'll love LOVING LAURA as much as I do and will sign up for my newsletter so that you'll be one of the first to be notified when the other books are released.
Happy Reading!
Patricia Kay
Dedication:
This book is dedicated to the memory of Rene Boudreaux Kay Richard, the mother of my oldest grandson Ryan Alexander Kay. Having Rene as my much-loved daughter-in-law gave me a personal glimpse into the Cajun heritage and an additional appreciation for their love of life. Rest in peace, Rene. I hope you know what a terrific young man your son has grown up to be. The Kay family will miss you always.
From
The Patinville Daily News
front page, August, 1989
Local Police Officer Killed In Baton Rouge Shoot-Out
Sgt. James Edward Kendella, 31, was shot and killed last night during an undercover operation conducted by the Baton Rouge Police Department. Sgt. Kendella, a Patinville resident, had been a member of the Baton Rouge Police Force for ten years. Last night, during a stakeout, Kendella was killed by Tony Abruzzi, a notorious local gangster, who police have long tried to convict. Before dying, Kendella also shot and killed Abruzzi. Kendella’s partner, ex-Patinville resident, Sgt. Neil Cantrelle, witnessed the shootings.
Kendella is survived by his wife, Alice, and their two children, James, Jr. and Lisa. Funeral services will be held at St. Anthony’s Church on Friday at 10:00 a.m. See page four for complete story.
December, 1992 . . .
The dream is the same as all the others. He is running down a dark, rain-swept street. It is hot and muggy, just like it is every summer in Louisiana. His footsteps echo on the pavement and the street lamps cast long, eerie shadows that look like individual hurdles he must cross.
He rounds the corner, and for one awful moment he cannot believe his eyes. The tableau laid out before him is like a carefully staged scene from a police action movie: the muscular gangster standing in the doorway of the house, the cop on the other side of the street. And then, as if an unseen director has yelled “Action,” the slow-motion movements of the players.
Everything happens at once. Jimmy shouts. Abruzzi whirls around. Gunshots erupt, spitting death. Jimmy folds over like a crumpled doll. Abruzzi staggers forward, then pitches face down across the concrete steps.
Abruzzi’s girlfriend, wearing only a sheer nightgown, stands in the doorway. She stares at Abruzzi sprawled across her porch steps. Her high-pitched scream slices through the dark night. “Toneeeee, nooooo
.. . .”
The sound of the gunshots reverberate in the moist, thick air. Neil races toward Jimmy. A siren wails louder and louder. Neil’s heart thunders in his chest, and his breath comes in shallow spurts.
No. No. No, his heart cries. His feet pound across the distance separating him from Jimmy Kendella, his partner, his best friend, the man he loves most in the world except for his father and brother.
No, he whispers, even as he kneels over Jimmy’s motionless body, even as the siren whines to a stop, even as he hears the urgent voices and the clunk of car doors.
No. The word tears through his brain. Like a mechanical doll with jerky, stilted movements, he lifts Jimmy’s head. His hands feel as if they belong to someone else.
No, please God. No, no. no. But even as he prays in desperation, even as his heart pushes into his throat, even as his hands shake in horror, he knows his denial is useless.
Jimmy is dead, shot through the middle of the chest. Blood puddles around his body, and his eyes are open and staring, their expression full of disbelief. Neil leans over him. He presses his ear against Jimmy’s chest.
Hands clutch at Neil. He fights them away. “Jimmy!” he cries. “Jimmy!” More squad cars arrive, brakes squealing, sirens a cacophony of sound surrounding him.
“Come on, Cantrelle, there’s nothing you can do,” a gruff voice says. The hands pull him away, and he screams.
“Jimmeeeee!”
“ Jimmeeeee!” Neil screamed and sat up in bed. His head was pounding. No. Someone was pounding on the door. Still shaking, it took him a few seconds to distance himself from the dream. Someone really was outside, he thought, as he fumbled for his jeans in the milky moonlight.
“Neil!” a man’s voice shouted. “Open up!”
Neil grimaced. That whiskey voice could only belong to Gastin Nesbitt, who owned the combination bait shop, gas station, grocery store right off Highway One, the overseas highway that linked the islands from mainland Florida over to Key Largo at its northeastern end to Key West at its southwestern end. Gastin, a Conch who had been born and raised on Cudjoe Key, was Neil’s one friend on the island—the only friend he’d made since coming to the Keys three years earlier.
“Keep your shirt on,” Neil grumbled as he padded across the bare wood floor to the door. He released the latch, and opened the door wide, letting the moonlight invade the room. Zoe, his black Labrador retriever, was suddenly at his side, a low growl rumbling in her throat. Gastin’s wiry frame stood silhouetted through the screened door. The diamond-dusted gulf waters shone behind him, and Neil could see Gastin’s rusted Ford pickup truck parked near the steps. Neil rubbed his eyes, trying to dispel the dream that still had him shaky.
“What are you doing here, Gastin? What the hell time is it, anyway?” He held the dog’s collar. “It’s okay, Zoe It’s just Gastin.”
Zoe’s body relaxed as Gastin said, “Your daddy called, Neil.”
“Papa?” Alarm shot through him. His father had only phoned him once before, when his grandmother had died. Réne Cantrelle was not the kind of man who would roust Gastin out of bed in the middle of the night unless it was something important. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s your brother.” Gastin opened the screened door and walked inside. The smell of fish that always clung to him drifted through the air.
“Norman! What happened?” Fear, thick and cloying, choked Neil’s throat.
“He done had a automobile accident. Bad, from what your daddy said. They got ’im in the Mercy Hospital in Baton Rouge, and it’s plenty serious. They don’t know if he’s gonna make it. Your daddy said to tell you to come home as fast as you can. He said they need you.”
Neil broke out in chills as the words hammered through his mind. Norman was seriously hurt. He could die. His father wanted him to come. He stared at Gastin. “What time is it? Maybe I can make the eight o’clock flight from Miami.”
“It’s three-thirty. You’d be cuttin’ it close.” Gastin switched on the nearest lamp. His right cheek bulged, and Neil knew he had a wad of chewing tobacco lodged inside his mouth. “You can come back to my place if you wanna call the airlines. You need money?”
“No, but thanks.” Neil pulled a clean shirt from his makeshift closet, a broom handle laid across two pegs jutting from the wall. He stuffed underwear, a few T-shirts, two pairs of clean jeans, a couple of sweaters, a pair of sweats, and some toiletries into a nylon duffel bag, dressing as he packed. The duffel bag still had some room in it, so he added a couple of paperback books of poetry, and then, as an afterthought, a pair of dress pants and a blue long-sleeved dress shirt, both holdovers from his past.
“You need a ride to Miami?”
Neil shook his head. “No. I’ll go on the bike.” He’d bought a used Harley-Davidson when he first arrived in the Keys. He found it the perfect mode of transportation, using less gas and requiring a smaller place for storage when not in use. “Would you keep Zoe for me, though?”
“Yep.” Gastin leaned down to pet the dog, and Zoe wagged her tail.
Neil knew the dog liked the old Conch. He also knew Gastin slipped Zoe tidbits from the table, something Neil didn’t do. No wonder Zoe liked the old geezer. “And the boat? Will you keep an eye on
The Louisiana Lady,
too?” He was referring to his charter fishing boat, tied up at the dock outside Gastin Nesbitt’s store.
“You know I will,” Gastin said. He walked to the screened door and pushed it open, spitting tobacco juice in a perfect arch. Neil heard the splat as it landed on the hard- packed dirt surrounding the shack. “I won’t let nobody touch that boat, no sirree.” Zoe’s tail thumped behind her as she watched the old man.
After pulling an old leather bomber jacket from the deep recesses of a storage chest, Neil lifted his duffel bag, and said, “I’m ready. Let’s go.” He yanked the chain on the ancient lamp, and the room was once more plunged into shadowy darkness.
Following Gastin and Zoe out the door, Neil drew it shut behind him. He didn’t bother to lock it. There was nothing in the cottage worth stealing. If anyone wanted the beat-up footlocker he’d bought for ten dollars at an auction on Sugarloaf Key or the forty-five-dollar air mattress that served as his bed or the old stove that he’d picked up for less than a hundred bucks, they could have them. The only thing of value in the room was the small portable refrigerator Neil had bought new when he’d first come to the island. Even the shortwave radio was a relic.
Neil pulled the bike out from under the thick tarp he used to protect it from the sun and the salt spray.
