Southern Hearts

Southern Heart

For the first time since her father’s passing three years prior, Kari Bossier returns to the south, to her family’s stately home on the emerald banks of the bayou Teche, and to a mother she yearns to understand.

As solstice dawns, and the advancing scorch of summer approaches, so does the gardener’s daughter, Regency. A tall imposing woman, Regency leaves Kari grappling for breath.

At her mother’s urging, Kari is begrudgingly forced to entertain Lani Trusdor. As the awkward paring evolves, a friendship evolves and Kari begins discover herself and her family’s secrets.

As summer draws to an end, Kari learns a devastating secret and realizes her feelings for Lani are more than just friendship. Will she give into her passion for Lani or will her seething lust toward Regency take hold and conquer?

SOUTHERN HEART

This trade paperback original is published by
Intaglio Publications
, Walker, La. 70785

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

________________________________________________________

Acknowledgments

My thanks to Katherine V. Forrest for her novel
Curious Wine,
which perked my interest in lesbian romance and ultimately fueled my desire to write. To Kay for her dedicated proofreading and input along the way. To Cheri for her supportive friendship that has made many things possible. And to my partner Kelly, whose unwavering love and encouragement not only make every day brighter, but also make my every dream seem attainable.

Dedication

Chapter One

My hips thrust urgently atop her thighs; my back arched as my hands slid the length of her spine. I rubbed my cheek along the soft skin of her jawline. My lips parted, my breath warm, pining as her tongue traced their outline. She pressed her firm nipples against my chest, her fingertips gently descending the length of my abdomen. I drew her bare frame tightly to me...

The phone rang out, and I wearily touched my hand to the cool plastic and lifted the receiver to my ear.

“Mon chèr, êtes vous là-bas?”

My mother’s seamless dialect yanked me from slumber. When I heard her say
chèr
, I cringed. It was a nickname she had assigned my sister Tami and me somewhere during infancy. It was meant to be endearing, to evoke feelings of love and contentment, but there was something about the way my mother said it, the way her mouth wrapped around the word, the way her tongue firmly stressed it, the way it held to her lips as if it were glued. It felt like she was beckoning me with condescension, almost as if she were using it out of requirement rather than regard. We had objected strongly over the years, but as with most things, Mother ignored our desires.

I rubbed my hands across my eyes, bracing myself for the commanding tone I knew was about to erupt from the other end. I didn’t have to speak to know what she was requesting. It was nearing June, solstice, and her annual
la fête de chanson
on August 12 was nearly upon me, looked forward to with the same reliability as the humid scorch of the advancing summer. It was a cotillion of sorts, Cajun style, set to the backdrop of marsh and pampas grass at the shore of the bayou—Jack Daniel’s, bourbon collinses, and mint juleps abounding, crepe streamers, citronella torch lanterns to the point of ostentation, and enough bluegrass strumming from a quartet of fiddles to resurrect Lee Cremo.

“I’m here. Hello, Mother.” My voice was raspy and apprehensive.

“Kari? What time is it there? It must be around six a.m., and you’re just rising? My goodness! I don’t know how you live such a relaxed existence.” My mother’s vocabulary was rich with polite subtleties that conveyed exactly how lazy she thought I was without actually using the word. Never mind that it was Saturday, or that I had put in over sixty hours the past week editing the typos and spelling errors for the daily headlines of the
Eastside Journal
, or that my temples were throbbing with pain from the blur of tiny Courier font. All that interested her was that I hadn’t been drawn to the day as the moon still shone into darkness.

“I’m up, Mother, I was just sitting here going over some paperwork.”

“It’s time,” she said.

“Time for what?” I knew exactly what she was talking about, but somehow letting her know that made me feel as if I were giving her an upper hand.

“It’s time to start organizing the party. I can’t believe how bad you are with dates.”

“I do have other things going on in my life, Mother, I don’t just sit around thinking of your parties,” I snapped.

“You are expected this year, Kari, and I don’t want to hear any more about it. The last few years without your father have been difficult on your sister and me. This year you need to be here.” Her tone was hard and firm.

The event and its responsibility had been passed down to my mother in the same fashion as the cabinets of Royal Doulton and Wedgwood bone china, the mahogany chests of sterling silver Delacourt and Embassy Scroll, and the many scripts written on the face of tattered burlap, spotted with the blood of kin left dying in their fine dress grays on the battlefields at Brices Cross Roads and others, just as one would bequeath the beams of Tara. In like form, my mother shouldered it with the dedication and formalness she had witnessed growing up. It was a family affair, and to keep up appearances, the participation of my sister and me was something that my mother commanded with the same strength as the shackles of a virgin’s chastity belt.

“It’s your duty as a Bossier; it’s about time you step up and take on your duties with grace. Most people would sacrifice an appendage to be born into such a family, but no, not my daughter. She prefers to act like a renegade and shirk what is expected.”

There were always plentiful amounts of duty that fell to women raised among the spurting bamboo and boundless wetlands of the South. I thought of it as a difficult culture, with its own rules and restrictions reminiscent of a modern-day caste system, where it always seemed more was expected of me than I wanted or was ever able to live up to. It was confining—a prison, as I viewed it—and a style of living that I had never opted for myself, having turned my back on Southern etiquette and moving to the West Coast three days after my eighteenth birthday.

“Please remember to bring something appropriate to wear. You can have your hair done once you get here, so don’t fuss over that now. Remember to call your Aunt Trudy and remind her about Nana’s terrine. I won’t have time.”

I listened as my mother charted detail upon detail about the party, until the monotony spilled from my pores and my eyes rolled toward the back of my skull. I hadn’t been home in three years. I packed the excuses cleverly, as if I were packing dishes for an upcoming move, adding even more Styrofoam popcorn with each passing year. But this time it was different; this was the opportunity I had been waiting for. I was going to tell my mother what I had discovered about myself, and I had set aside the whole summer in hopes of building the courage to finally say the words, to finally allow myself to release an inner peace I hoped was within me.

“I have already discussed the dinner with Marney, so she has that portion taken care of. Oh, and please don’t bring Terry; he is a distraction to you and the job at hand.”

“It’s Gary, Mother, and we broke up over a year ago.”

“Good! Now, make sure you don’t allow the rental company to bring too many chairs. Last year your sister had so many chairs the dance floor was the size of a broom closet.”

“Outside, Mother? How could you have been cramped for space?”

“Nevertheless, it was a snag we could have done without.”

My mother babbled, on outlining her plan, concentrating on the specifics, including the exact day and time that my sister and I were to arrive. This year I put up little argument for the sake of my own agenda, but my mother’s normal form of convincing bordered on manipulation. Her strategy was the perfect marriage of neediness and quilt, and no matter how firm her conviction, my sister caved to the pressure ever year, giving up vacations with her daughter Megan to devote her entire summer to obeying the hasty barks of our mother.

“Another thing, Kari. Lani, my friend AnnLou’s daughter, will be visiting. I told her you would be more than happy to show her around Louisiana.”

“Why would you tell her that without asking me?” I demanded. “I have enough going on, maybe I don’t want to play tour guide.”

“It has already been planned, so you will need to work it in with the other things you have to do.”

I pushed my body into a tensely erect position. “And if I have no interest in working it in? I should be able to decide when and with whom I spend my time.”

“When you are in Seattle you are in charge of your own life. When you are here, I am the head of this household and I will decide how your time is spent, young lady,” she quickly retorted. “I trust you received your airline tickets yesterday?”