The Vigil
Praise for Southern Fried Christmas
The Vigil
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Marian P. Merritt
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
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The Vigil
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COPYRIGHT 2014 by Marian P. Merritt
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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or Pelican Ventures, LLC except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
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eBook editions are licensed for your personal enjoyment only. eBooks may not be re-sold, copied or given away to other people. If you would like to share an eBook edition, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with.
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Contact Information: [email protected]
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All scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version(R), NIV(R), Copyright 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.⢠Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide.
www.zondervan.com
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Cover Art by Nicola Martinez
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Harbourlight Books, a division of Pelican Ventures, LLC
www.pelicanbookgroup.com
PO Box 1738 *Aztec, NM * 87410
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Harbourlight Books sail and mast logo is a trademark of Pelican Ventures, LLC
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Publishing History
First Harbourlight Edition, 2015
Paperback Edition ISBN 978-1-61116-414-5
Electronic Edition ISBN 978-1-61116-413-8
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
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While writing is a solitary endeavor, making a story come to life requires the efforts of many. My thanks to the following for their encouragement and expertise. Your support helped make this book a reality.
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To: Gary Zellers, CRT: thank you for sharing your medical knowledge. Any mistakes are my own. Nadine B., your keen eye enhanced this story. LSU's Website and its Cajun Dictionary and Prof. Amanda LeFleur for your diligent dedication to keeping the Cajun language alive. My high school friend, Melanie LeBlanc Acosta, who won the contest on my FB author page for naming the town in this book. The character Aunt Melanie is named for her. My dear friends and prayer partners, Lila C. and Lois R., your prayers hold me up and mean the world to me.
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To my daughter, Hope, son, Scotty, and daughter-in-law, Barbara whose encouragement lifts me up and propels me forward especially on the days when the words won't come. My husband, Scott, who always believes in me and has been known to read the roughest of drafts and still have good things to say.
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Lastly and mostly, to my Lord and Savior, from whom all blessings flow and for whom I write.
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Praise for Southern Fried Christmas
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On
Southern Fried Christmas:
A Colorado girl who doesn't cook goes south to write about Cajun cooking. Crawfish and spicy food are foreign to her but the candy cane is a joint heritage. Marian P. Merritt weaves culture (even a gator!), past hurts, a precocious daughter for the hero, and a trusting God into a precious Christmas novella. ~LoRee Peery, author of the
Frivolities Series
and
Creighton's Hideaway
.
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Marian P. Merritt's
Southern Fried Christmas
is a charming trip through Cajun country at Christmastime. From traditional food to steamy humidity, I was transported to Louisiana for the holidays by way of this author's descriptive and realistic Deep South Christmas. I rooted for Denny and Kelly all the way and look forward to more from Marian P. Merritt. ~Carla Rossi, author of
Unexpected Wedding.
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With just the right turn of a Cajun phrase and the perfect dash of
laissez les bon temps roule
, Marian P. Merritt's writing takes this bayou girl home to Louisiana every time I open one of her books. ~Kathleen Y'Barbo, author of the award-wining historical series,
The Secret Lives of Will Tucker: Flora's Wish, Millie's Treasure
, and her latest,
Sadie's Secret
.
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Marian brings Cajun culture and profound characters alive in her novels. ~Nadine Brandes (Brandes Editorial)
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Houston, TX
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“Jarrod, stop! You're hurting me.”
My boyfriend tightened his grip and twisted the skin on my wrist. “Cheryl, I've told you before about flirting with Barry.”
“I wasn't flirting.”
Another twist and then a slap to my jaw. My head shook from the force. He'd never hit me before. Bile rose and scorched my throat. Repulsion hit like a tidal wave while the ticking clock on the wall blurred, doubled, then returned to normal. Like the ticking clock, the repulsion remained. He'd hit me. He had actually hit me.
“Don't lie to me.” His eyes bored into me like darting lasers. “No girlfriend of mine is going to embarrass me like that and get away with it.”
Before I could respond, the second strike followed in the same location along my jaw. My pulse raced. A scream I struggled to contain escaped, fueling his anger.
Something deep within awakened. I'd become the thing I'd detested.
No. He wouldn't do this to me. I wouldn't be that woman. Couldn't be
that
woman.
I kicked his shin with all my strength while yanking my arm out of his grip. “I'm leaving. This is it Jarrod, we're done.” I sprinted toward the front door and freedom.
“Cheryl.” His booming voice, edged with alcohol and demand, followed close behind. “Get back here.”
Rage boiled under my skin, and the desire to hurt him gripped. A feeling I'd never felt before. I reached for the red ceramic lamp on the foyer table, but before I could wrap my hand around the base, he slammed me into the wall. Thankfully, he stumbled and fell to the floor taking the lamp with him. Its pieces shattered on the unforgiving tile.
With shaking hands, I struggled to turn the front door knob. Just as Jarrod stood behind me, I yanked the door and darted into the hallway. His slurred words spewed from the half-opened door. “You're just like Vivian, you know. Just like your mother.”
Jarrod's neighbor, Brent, peered from his door. The knowing look on his face filled me with shame. “Cheryl, are you OK? I've called the police.”
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****
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The drive east from Houston to Bijou Bayou, the only place I knew I'd be safe, proved to be the longest four hours of my life. Home. At the prospect, my sweating fingers tightened around the steering wheel. But the larger revolt came when I thought about staying in Houston. I couldn't risk being in the same town, no matter how big, with Jarrod Trumont. I feared for my life. And his.
Yet, the greater question loomed ahead: could I tolerate living in the same town as my mother?
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Deux
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Bijou Bayou, LA - Two months later
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With a wrinkled, liver-spotted hand, my patient, Carlton Perlouix, brushed the strand of gray away from his face. “Need a haircut. Could you?” His gruff voice echoed against the twelve-foot ceilings of the near empty bedroom in the old Acadian style house.
“Yep, I'd say you do.”
At seventy-nine, he looked much older. Cancer does that.
I hate cancer.
“Do you have scissors anywhere?” I searched his worn oak nightstand drawer, careful not to disturb the order inside. Patients who've lost control of so much in their life hold on to the little things, like insisting the tissue box remain in the same place, and was why he'd insisted on paying out of pocket for twenty-four hour home care.
“Bathroom. Top drawer.” He didn't waste words. Talking required energy. Energy he didn't have.
In the bathroom, a pink-tinged towel hung from a simple iron rack. The top drawer held the aroma of mothballs and a barrage of bathroom items. I grabbed scissors, electric clippers, and a wide toothed comb, and then reached for the hanging bath towel.
“Lean forward a little.” He sat up in his rented hospital bed. I slid the towel around his shoulders. “I see you washed something red with this.”
He grinned. That Jeremiah-Johnson-man-of-the-wilderness grin. I'd seen it recently from my favorite actor in some newly crafted western. But never on Mr. Perlouix. The tough-guy grin suited him. I liked it.
“Ah, one load,” he said.
I smiled.
Deep wrinkles covered his forehead and outlined his soft violet eyes. The lines circling his lips spoke of his long history with cigarettes.
Part of me delighted in helping while a tiny part reconciled that this wasn't included in my nursing job description. Then again the man was dying. I'd do what it took to make him comfortable. The injections into his IV, which struggled to remain in his ever-collapsing veins, didn't seem to be enough. At least not for me.
“Short,” he barked.
A smart-aleck retort dissolved in my throat when I saw the lack of hope in eyes bordering frightfully close to death. If giving me orders made him feel better, I could take it. Of course, somehow I believed he liked to banter, and I looked forward to getting to know him better so I could allow him that pleasure. “Short cut or short shaved.”
“Shaved. Military style.” His lips separated the bare minimum. I'd had to lean in to hear the words.
“Were you in the military?” I knew so little about this man, yet for the past three weeks, I'd watched him wither away. Waited while death slithered a little closer. No family or friends ever came. How could someone live so long and be so alone? And how could I, a stranger, share this important part of his life?
“Korean.” His wrinkled hand lay on his lap with skin so thin I plainly saw the highways of veins and arteries beneath. Vessels that carried a mixture of blood, toxins, and whatever else his body chose to take in. Regardless of technology and amazing inventions, his body had the final say. And there was little else anyone could do. Except, I suppose, pray.
“That must have been tough.”
Snip, snip
. Gray strands drifted down to his shoulders and rested there like feathers.
“Umph.” He flicked the tobacco-stained fingernail of his index finger with the equally stained nail of his thumb. “Not for me.”
My brows tightened. Reining my emotions proved difficult with this patient. “Why so?” I asked.
He shrugged his shoulders and took a deep breath. “Sometimes you're dead...” His eyes, burning with intensity, met mine. Sadness etched the corners. “...before your body says so.” A fit of coughing racked him, jerking him right and then left and back and forth in ways his body resisted. The last snippets of hair drifted to the floor and rested on the worn oak planks.
“I suppose that's true.” I struggled to keep my expression void of emotion.
I stood bedside, scissors in hand and waited. I knew exactly what he meant. The last few months with Jarrod had killed my spirit more than I realized. The anger I'd experienced with him scared me. Daily I feared he'd find me and finish what he started. One good thing about coming home, Jarrod feared my brother more than he wanted to harm me and would never venture to Bijou Bayou. I was also fairly certain he'd already moved on to another enabling girlfriend. But the lie I'd tendered all my life hung heavy on my soul. I'd thought I was above being in an abusive relationship. Although I hadn't stayed, I'd picked a man who could strike a woman. That crawled deep inside and coiled in my gut making me question my judgment.
