The Red-Hot Cajun (30 page)

“Why have you come to us?” Aunt Margo had her arms folded over her chest and was eyeing them suspiciously.

“We’re afraid that if this documentary airs and people get wind of this special plant, they’ll be traipsing all over the swamplands searching for it, thus defeating the whole purpose of saving the environment,”

Justin explained.

“Why isn’t that swamp agitator with you?” Aunt Madeline asked Valerie.

“Who?”

“Don’t be pert, young lady. Rene LeDeux, that’s who.”

“He’s down in the car,” Valerie replied truthfully.

Both aunts smiled then, small smiles but smiles nonetheless. Aunt Margo observed, “Wise decision.”

“You still haven’t explained where we come in,” Aunt Madeline reminded them.

“If we get you started on a new tea line—Juju tea, to be specific—and we mention it on air, then people would order it from you, rather than running up and down the bayou.” Valerie looked at them closely when she finished, trying to read their reactions. She didn’t have to use her jury analyst skills at all. It was obvious they were interested.

“It’s a deal,” Aunt Margo said and Aunt Madeline nodded her agreement. “Come talk to us when you get back from the city.”

“In the meantime, we would appreciate your not discussing this proposition with anyone,” Justin urged.

“That would be foolish of us, wouldn’t it?” Aunt Margo said disdainfully. “We are smart business people. Why would we want to breed our own competition?”

“Riiiight!” Val and Justin concurred, not daring to look at each other for fear they would laugh.

“It occurs to me,” Val said, “are you at all concerned that there is no scientific research backing up these claims?”

“Hell, no,” Aunt Margo said. “Half of the claims on our teas have no scientific foundation. Good heavens, we’ve got cures for sleeplessness, upset stomach, diarrhea, weight loss, and so on.”

“Besides,” Aunt Madeline added, “we could always ask Sylvie to help us with research. She’s a chemist. But that probably won’t be necessary.”

“One last thing. Can I ask you both a personal question?”

They arched their well-plucked eyebrows at her as if personal questions were in poor taste. Even so, she plowed ahead. “Have you kept in touch with your brother, my father, over the years?”

Her question surprised them, she could tell.

“Occasionally,” Aunt Margo said.

“More often when he first left,” Aunt Madeline explained. “Not so much in recent years. He remarried, you know.”

Valerie did know, but only because she’d overheard her mother one time when she was in high school.

She hadn’t dared ask about it, though, because her father’s name was forbidden in the house.

“Did he want me?” Valerie immediately wished she hadn’t asked such a pitiful question.

“Of course he did. What a foolish question!” Aunt Margo looked uncomfortable discussing the subject in front of Justin.

Still, Valerie persisted. “Did he fight for custody of me? More important, did he ever attempt to contact me over the years?”

Her two aunts exchanged worried glances.

“I think these questions should be addressed to your mother,” Aunt Madeline said in a voice that brooked no argument.

Valerie smiled because, in essence, her aunt had answered her questions. Her mother had a lot to answer for. But not just yet.

She and Justin said their good-byes, and once they were out in the hall, with the closed door behind them, they gave each other high fives.

“At least two of the enemy are on our side,” she said.

“We did well,” Justin agreed.

When they exited the building, they saw Rene leaning back against the car talking to a pretty, young police officer. He wore jeans, a blue pinstriped oxford collar shirt, a navy blazer and low-heeled boots. Hot, hot, hot! The girl, in her early twenties, was giggling at something he said.

“Grrrr,” Val growled in an exaggerated fashion.

Justin laughed.

“Maybe there’s such a thing as too much Juju,” she said.

Rene looked up and noticed them. He winked at her, a wink she felt all the way to her toes, and some other significant places.

“Then again, maybe not.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Taking a bite of the Big Apple

They flew into JFK later that afternoon.

Justin went off to stay with a friend in the Village, while Rene and Val took a taxi to her apartment.

They would meet the next morning in Anderson’s office.

Rene had been in the Big Apple on several occasions, but he felt particularly suffocated this time because he could see that Val wanted him to love her town as much as she did.
Impossible!
He was putting on a mask, pretending to be impressed, while all he thought was,
I
can’t breathe.
The smell of auto exhausts, garbage, body odor, perfume, fried grease from restaurants, and pungent garlic from the cab driver—all combined to make his stomach roil.

He glanced over at Val beside him, about to say, “How can you stand this?” He stopped himself at the expression on her face. She was smiling and gazing raptly at the passing scenery.
This is home to her.

How stupid of me not to realize that!

He looked out his window of the cab, trying to see what she saw. What he saw were homeless people mixed with the crowds, the same sight that had greeted him each time he had visited Manhattan.
Mon
Dieu,
there were homeless people in Louisiana, too, but they were so out in the open here, and people just walked by, not seeming to care.

Then there was Val’s building, where they’d just arrived. A skyscraper, as far removed from his Cajun homeland as anything could be.

She greeted the doorman warmly. “Lewis, how are you? And your family?”

“Just fine, just fine. Nice to have you back, Ms Breaux. I saved your mail for you.”

They went up to the tenth floor on an elevator and soon entered her apartment. He could tell that she was proud of it, of the location overlooking Central Park and the fine furnishings. She kept glancing at him to see his reaction.
Man oh man, it’s so freak in’ small. I better not turn too quick or I might k nock
something over. Didn’t I leave this behind in Washington, D.C.?
Living room, kitchen, bathroom, a closet-sized office, and one bedroom, all of which would have fit in his cabin. He guessed that every square inch of living space in Manhattan was comparable to a square yard in the bayou.

“Very nice,” he said, looking at the red Oriental carpet and the furniture arranged around a low coffee table, sort of a settee on curved wooden legs and two wing-back chairs. There wasn’t one single place where a guy could stretch out and watch a ball game on TV... if there was a TV. “Where do you eat?”

Her face flushed. “I don’t eat at home much. When I do, it’s standing up at the kitchen counter, or on the coffee table, or I pull out that gate leg table against the wall over there.”

That’s just great. An apartment that probably costs an arm and a leg, and it doesn’t even have aplace to eat.
“Oh. That’s nice.”
That’s ridiculous.

“What do you think of this?” she asked brightly, pointing to a chair that sat in one corner.

It looked old. He didn’t want to offend her by saying it would be uncomfortable for a guy his size.

“Great. Is it an antique?”

“Yes. It’s a violet ebony piece made by a New Orleans furniture maker named Seignouret about the time of the Civil War. I inherited it from my great-grandmother.”

What do I say to that?
“Must be expensive. Betcha it would go for at least a thousand dollars.”
What
a stupid thing to say!

“Hah! More like twenty.”

“Twenty what?”

“Thousand.”

For chrissake, she has a chair that costs as much as my car. Talk about!
“You’re kidding.” He immediately took his hand off its back, not wanting to get fingerprints on it or anything. Jeesh, he hoped he didn’t trip and knock it over.

“Let’s freshen up and go out to eat,” she suggested. “We can walk to my favorite restaurant.”

He used her tiny bathroom and came out wearing the same clothes he’d worn on the plane, except for exchanging his dress shirt for a white T-shirt under the jacket. She came out of her bedroom wearing a white dress that resembled a tank top with full skirt reaching to her calves. It was the fabric that about did him in. Sort of a T-shirt material that clung to her body like it was magnetized. If he didn’t already know the shape of her champagne breasts, he did now. And when she turned to grab a purse, he saw her heart-shaped ass clearly delineated.
Maybe I could grow to like the city if this is how they dress here.

She turned and said, “Why are you smiling? Is something wrong with my dress?”

“No, baby. Something’s right with your dress.” He made sure she walked in front of him to the elevator.

Her favorite restaurant turned out to be a Moroccan one. They sat on rugs on the floor before low tables. The menu included a bowl of soup that cost
twenty dollars. A meal for the two of us will cost
three hundred dollars, if we’re lucky.
It wasn’t that Rene didn’t know about expensive restaurants, couldn’t afford to spend the money or didn’t appreciate fine food, but jeesamighty this was a ridiculous waste, in his opinion. Not that he was about to voice that opinion to Val, who was beaming with pleasure.

They both ate the spiced lentil soup.
I
should tell Tante Lulu again that her gumbo would bring in
a fortune here.
Val ordered lamb shank tagine with apricot couscous—a fancy name for leg of lamb. He ordered simple beef kebobs, which pretty much amounted to beef and veggies on a stick, after declining the brains with sauce or calf foot entrees which were also on the menu. They sipped at an alcoholic drink that resembled curdled milk in funny cups.

Actually Rene was not a picky eater and this food was delicious. A belly dancer moved about the rooms of the restaurant, scantily clad and undulating nicely to the beat of her tambourine and some Arab music in the background. The dancer had a very nice navel, he happened to notice, especially with that pigeon-egg-sized jewel in it; he thought about asking Val how the woman kept the stone there, if she used glue or what, but one look at Val’s frown, and he decided not to. The dancer took a particular liking to him, twirling her scarves around him and swaying her hips in front of his face. He pretended to be really interested just to be nice, and when the dancer moved on, he winked at Val and said, “Remember what Charmaine said about belly dancers and orgasms? Do you think I should ask this one if it’s true?”

“Don’t you dare.”

“She has nothing on you.” He was still fixated on that clingy white dress of hers, which was sexier any day than a flimsy harem outfit.

“Tsk -tsk -tsk ,”
she said, but he could tell she was pleased.

On the way home, they walked hand in hand. It was nice. He didn’t even mind the smell of garbage coming from some of the alleyways. When they passed a below-street level nightclub with big band-style music coming from its open door, he suggested they go in. Rene loved music of all kinds, except maybe rap, and he smiled with appreciation as they entered. They sat at a table near the small dance floor. He ordered a beer, she ordered white wine. At first they just watched the six-piece band with singer, and a half dozen couples, mostly older folks, on the dance floor move to the slow and swing tunes made popular in the 1940s:

“Sentimental Journey.” “In the Mood.” “Chatanooga Choo-Choo.”

“Wanna dance?” he asked, nudging her sandal with his boot.

She smiled. “Sure.”

For the next two hours they danced and danced. Slow dances to songs like “It Had to Be You” and “Don’t Get Around Much Anymore” and jitterbug-type dancing to songs like “Sixty Minute Man,” “Mack the Knife,” and “It Don’t Mean a Thing.” Rene was in his element on the dance floor, and Val followed well.

People watched them move expertly to the beat and sometimes even clapped. He was hardly aware of all that, he was more interested in watching the movement of Val’s body in the white clingy dress.

To him, dancing—specifically, dancing with Val— was foreplay at its best. They looked into each other’s eyes. They brushed body parts. They held each other close in a dance embrace. They moved in a sexual rhythm. Hell, he was a walking half-hard-on for a full two hours. If he were a betting man, he’d say Val was in a similar condition, whatever they called it for a woman.

They walked back to her apartment with her tucked under his right arm and her left arm around his waist.