Bayou Born(13)

She traced the lines in her palm with her right index finger. She’d had her palm read once by a woman in a caftan and turban outside St. Louis cathedral in New Orleans. The woman told her things, many of which she couldn’t remember. However, though she wasn’t a palmist, a fortuneteller or a medium, pure physics told her that she and James channeled some sort of weird current. An energy. Only, it made her want to touch James more.

“Dr. Newbern,” she corrected. They were only colleagues. She had to remember his interest in her was merely professional. His job was to mentor her, and he was only doing his job. Maybe the whole thing was a test? Maybe because this was her first fulltime teaching job, Dr. Newbern was assigned to ensure her success? Or what if her success, or lack thereof, reflected on him? That could be a problem. She had to do well at work, not only for herself, but to make sure she reflected well on him.

James. The man had danced her off her feet. She hadn’t played coy with him. Nor made excuses about her dancing abilities. He had no way of knowing that it wasn’t her forte and that she’d failed dancing lessons 101 with a big fat F. After that, her mother had finally let her take up piano instead. She should have warned him that her dancing partners usually wore steel-toed boots. Instead, she abandoned her inhibitions and let him lead her to the dance floor. For once, she enjoyed the delight of someone asking her to dance. That was part of the new and improved Branna Lind.

“James Newbern, Doctor James Newbern.” She chuckled. “Are you what the doctored ordered?”

His chocolate brown eyes had glinted with humor and tried to mask pain each time she stepped on his toes. Steven would have criticized once, then endured the rest of a dance in silence, always the gentleman he was raised to be when in the public’s eye. After that, he’d make excuses not to dance with her again. It became a running joke between them. Usually Camilla or Biloxi, if she happened to be around, kept him occupied on the dance floor. That man loved to dance.

James, on the other hand, had been patient while she swallowed her embarrassment. The most magical moment of the night—when they danced until the drummer shimmered the cymbals to close out a song. James had twirled her one last time as if she were a princess at the ball.

But the picture fixed in her mind based on Dr. Brown’s earlier glowing remarks, and the man last night, didn’t exactly fit. She’d thought Dr. Newbern was older and conservative, the tweed-jacket type.

She’d know more in time. Meanwhile, she had the whole weekend to herself. A luxury extraordinaire.

Rolling over, pulling the sheet over her shoulder, she drifted off to sleep.

Bzzz. Bzzz. Bzzz.

She jumped. Wading through the fog of sleep, she grabbed for the phone.

“Hello?” she whispered.

“Good morning. If you change into a pumpkin at midnight, what time do you change back?”

“Uh? What?” she stammered. “Who’s speaking?” She tried to kick her brain into gear.

“James Newbern.”

She sat up and clutched the sheet to cover herself, then rolled her eyes. For Pete’s sake, he couldn’t see her.

“What time is it?” she asked dragging her fingers through her hair.

“About ten.”

“I won’t become human again until noon.” She stuffed another pillow behind her and leaned back.

“Wonder if the New Rag would be interested in an exclusive on you.”

“Huh?”

“Well, then again, maybe they’ll think I’m the crazy one for talking with a pumpkin.”

“Ahh, a man who jokes before noon. I knew you were too good to be true.” She clamped a hand over her mouth. Had she actually said those words aloud?

“You thought of me, too.”

Her eyes grew wide. Was he flirting with her? Couldn’t be. They were colleagues. Crap! How did she reply to that?

“I’m calling to invite you for a meal.”

“Any meal or one in particular?”

“I’m trying to be nice. Trying to live up to the hype Dr. Brown’s been feeding you about me. If you aren’t busy, I’ll give you a tour of the town. After all, its small, it won’t take long. Then, a quick run to the college.”

She looked at the clock. She could shower, change, and meet him at noon. She could delay painting her home office until later that afternoon.

“It’s all about southern hospitality.” His drawl drug out every syllable of every word.

She snorted. “Are you mocking my accent?”

“Now, why would I do that? Why would I insult you after inviting you out? I’m trying to be professionally sociable.”

“I’ve been here for almost month. Whenever I came to campus, you were never around. So much for southern hospitality.

“Hold on. Let’s rewind. My peace offering is food. I feel bad we didn’t meet before, but I wasn’t dodging you. I have a busy schedule. Very tight deadline. Let me make it up to you. Lunch?”

“Well, maybe one o’clock?” She couldn’t refuse. After all, they had to work together. No need to get off on a bad foot, especially after she had mangled all of his toes last night.

“Do you like bar-b-que?” he asked.

“Not so much.” Just what she needed—up to her elbows in sauce and wearing it on her shirt.

“Fried chicken?”

“Um, well, yes, but too many calories.”

“Well, how about a good ol’ fashion home style meal at the Magnolia Café?”

She’d heard it was downtown on the square where old-timers hung out and rubbed elbows with the lawyers and judges in town.

“Perfect. I’ll meet you there at one fifteen.” She hung up before he had a chance to change the time.





Chapter 8

James stood back and looked at the room. It turned out how he’d envisioned. The first of the bedrooms to be painted, he was inspired when he started, but the spark had waned, and he was glad to be done. The information he found at the paint store recommended sea-foam green for calm, but calm came only after paint covered all the walls.

He dropped the roller into the empty metal paint tray. The clatter woke Beauregard, who raised his head as if to question the need for noise.

“Sorry, boy. I’m done. Feel free to go back to sleep.”

He tried to force thoughts of Katie aside. They hit him every time he entered this room. Meredith had said it had been her nursery when she was born, then transformed into a pink palace for a little girl. He’d painted it a neutral color. All elements of “girl” had been removed. Though much of his grief over Katie had settled into sweet memories, occasionally, a painful one floated to the top. It always surprised him when some little reminder of his daughter grabbed him and wrung another pain from his heart. She’d been born three years ago, and lived for only five months.

Quite possibly, the room would’ve been hers. Would she have loved it? Had she lived, he would have painted the room any color she wanted, and then filled it with books and toys. Caroline had dumped all of Katie’s things at Goodwill after Katie died.

He peeled off the blue tape used to protect the baseboards and moldings from wet paint. Splotches of color smeared his hands as he rolled the tape into a ball. Katie’s sweet smile danced in his mind.

The first year following her death, he’d visited her grave each month. She rested there with other Newberns in Pine Mount cemetery, behind the church his great, great grandparents had started. The church baptized, married, and buried generations of Newberns. He had paid extra to have a teddy bear carved on the back of the headstone. To his knowledge, Caroline had never seen it. The second year, after his mother suggested he might consider grief counseling, he visited Katie’s grave every other month. During the last year, guilt had lessened, and he only placed flowers there on special occasions.

Ching. Ching. The doorbell interrupted his thoughts. He tossed a wad of tape into the trashcan, then wiped his hands on his jeans as he ran downstairs.

“Delivery,” a uniformed man said, as if James couldn’t see the large crate the man had perched on a dolly on the porch.

“Sign here.” The man handed over a tablet-sized pad with a stylus attached. As James signed, the man wiggled the dolly from underneath the crate, then took back his pad and started down the steps.

“Wait,” James called. “I need help getting this inside.”

“Sorry. That’s not what we do. Delivery is only to the front door.”

“Shit. How do I get this inside?”

The man shrugged and ran to his delivery truck pulling the wheeled dolly behind him.

As if on cue, James’ cell phone vibrated in his back pocket.

“Hey! Wanna go skiing?” Bobby Park, his best friend since childhood, could be counted on for a good time.

“Can’t.”

“Whatever it is, drop it. Let’s go.”