Bayou Born(7)

She pressed her palm flat against the window. Her fingers itched to move the stray lock of hair off his forehead. Feeling bold, she smiled and winked. She could flirt safely, hidden behind dark tinted glass.

He took a step closer.

Her breath hitched in her throat.

He smiled and winked. When his hand pressed on the outside of the glass in the same spot where hers pressed from the inside, they were palm to palm, but for the tinted glass between them. The man grinned wider.

Had she ever seen a sexier smile? Even his chocolate brown eyes danced with laughter. Something about his sexy smile...she couldn’t look away. Had they met before?

A streak of light flashed like a giant strobe. She covered her ears, anticipating the deafening boom. The next lightning strike sent her diving to the floor.

The lights in the bookstore popped off.

Everything rattled.

She covered her head, expecting the vibrating windows to shatter, certain lightning had struck the building.

Lying there, she waited for disaster. Echoing booms of thunder lessened. Backup lights flickered on. Slowly the world came back into focus.

“Branna, you okay?” Brian Murphy yelled.

“I think so,” she said, afraid to rise.

A deep thrusting groan from the air conditioning system muted the music that started playing again over the sound system. Florescent lights hummed on again.

Panicked, she jumped up. Where was the man in the window? For a second, time had frozen them. Linked them somehow. Only she and he existed in the storm.

Where had he gone?

Who was he?

How would she ever find out?





Chapter 4

The next day, standing on the driveway, Branna shielded her eyes from the bright noon sun. She waited with a furniture moving crew she’d hired from U-Haul to help her dad unload and set up furniture, all the things her parents insisted on bringing from Fleur de Lis. Shifting her weight from one side to the other, she looked at her watch again. Her parents were thirty minutes overdue. Her mother had assured her they had their GPS and would find her house. It wasn’t that far off the interstate.

With her eyes trained down the street at the intersection of the main road, she spied a battered white pickup passing by. She’d know it anywhere. Her heart pounded. She couldn’t contain a grin. How silly. Why would she feel a connection to the guy in the truck? It had to be more of a mental game, like “I Spy.” Momma had made the family play it on their trips to the beach to keep them entertained.

“Who is he?” She hadn’t wanted to know when Meredith made introductions, but now...Had her brain manufactured the quivering sensation from their brief touch? That had to be it.

A minute later, a U-Haul truck turned on to her tree-lined street. She waved both hands to get her father’s attention. Her parents and her furniture had finally arrived.

With hand gestures of a traffic cop, she guided her father’s backing of the U-Haul onto the driveway and kept him from backing too close to the house. When he cut the engine off, she patiently waited while her parents climbed out. She would never admit to them how happy she was to see them, nor how homesickness plagued her every night before she went to bed. She had framed the postcard she brought from home—the one they’d made from Biloxi’s award-winning photograph and sold to tourists—and kept it by her bed. It was the last thing she saw at night and the first thing in the morning.

“Hey!” She rushed in and hugged them. “I’m so glad to see you. You had a good trip, right? Daddy, Tom’s the guy in charge.”

She introduced the furniture-mover foreman to her father. “Tom, this is my dad, Charles.” The two men walked to the back of the truck talking unloading logistics.

“This is it?” her mother asked. Skepticism punctuated her words.

“Let me show you.” She jogged to the front door and waited for her mother to catch up before opening the entryway to the 1940’s bungalow, all the while trying not to hold her breath. It was her choice of homes, she was happy, but she wanted her mother’s approval.

“It’s not exactly what I expected from the photos you took,” her mother said, appearing to scrutinize every nook and corner. An airport-security searcher couldn’t have been more thorough.

“You know I lack Biloxi’s talent with a camera, Momma.”

“It’s rather small, don’t you think? I hope I don’t have to take any furniture back. We thought we’d drop the truck here and rent a car to go home.”

Charles poked his head inside the front door, “We’re ready to bring in the dresser and night stands. When we’re done unloading, let’s have dinner out. I hope this town has other restaurants, more than the ones I saw at the interstate.”

“You name it. I’ll find it for you, Daddy.”

“Tsk. Tsk.” Macy shook her head as she walked-off the living room space. “Fifteen by fifteen.”

“It’s cozy, Momma. It suits me fine. The kitchen is over here.” She walked from the living room, through the dining room and made a right turn past the breakfast bar. Her sneakers squeaked against the terrazzo floor. “I get to do whatever I want to with this place. No family council vote on what color to paint a room. I wouldn’t have that freedom if I rented an apartment. This is fine. Perfect for me. I can do almost any work the house needs by myself. By necessity, I learned to be handy at Fleur de Lis.”

“Yes, there is that.”

“You don’t like it, do you?”

“No. It’s not that.” Macy paused. “I’m just wondering why you bought a house when you promised to move back in two years and take over your duties.”

Rather than go head-to-head with the old argument, Branna sighed and changed the subject.

“Where do you think the couch will work best, Momma?” She tried sounding chipper.

Who was she kidding? She was the next Keeper of Fleur de Lis. The title had ruled her life since the day she was born. Was it a pipe dream to think she could break free of a hundred plus-years of family tradition encoded in her DNA? Why did legacy trump logic in a place where sweet tea ran more freely than the Mississippi River? Had no one but her ever considered the fact that just maybe she wasn’t the person in the family best suited for the job?

“Well, you know how much I dislike a room with furniture plastered against all the walls—Branna, if you wanted to change the furniture at home in your room, why didn’t you say so. You didn’t need to do all this to make a statement or get my attention. I do value your opinion.”

Little had changed in a hundred years at Fleur de Lis. Not only in the bedrooms, all the rooms, including the office where she spent many waking hours. Afternoon sunlight still streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows and cast a warm glow on the ivory Aubusson rug. Matching Hepplewhite wingback chairs still flanked the fireplace. The antique clock on the mantel chimed every hour. Only one change in the décor of that room suggested modern times—a flattop LCD monitor. Her life, like the office, had been structured and well planned.

The teaching job offered a ticket to a whole new life. At least for a little while. And a breather from the humiliation Steven caused.

“Momma, let’s roll up our sleeves and get to work. We’ve only got a few hours before you and daddy head home.”





Chapter 5

Friday morning, Branna glanced at the salad ingredients on the counter. “Potluck dinners,” she mused. “Jello salads and mystery food.”

Every potluck she had ever attended offered at least one mystery—a casserole with unidentifiable ingredients masked by a cap of toasted breadcrumbs. Maybe things in Lakeview were different from Bayou Petite, the little town closest to home. She could hope.

She’d eaten her share of mystery food at church dinners and other community events, but other eating-out opportunities rarely happened. Fast food chains hadn’t invaded Bayou Petite until several years ago. Before, she had to travel twenty minutes to Picayune for a drive-through experience, which held little appeal after growing up with Greta’s mouth-watering cooking. Any white-linen dining event was still a special treat.

With Tab Benoit belting out Jambalaya on the stereo, she sang along and tossed lettuce and spinach with toasted pecans. Next, she sprinkled crumbled gorgonzola cheese on top for color and flavor, which made her mouth water. The salad always tasted better than how it looked in the bowl. She hoped others would enjoy it. First impressions counted, and she wanted to put her best foot forward at the faculty potluck.

She finished off the salad creation by layering thin slices of strawberries—courtesy of Lakeland, Florida, the strawberry capitol—then she covered the large wooden bowl with plastic wrap. At the party, she’d toss the mixture with her special balsamic vinaigrette. The vinegar had been barrel-aged for twenty years. On the rare occasions when Greta allowed her to cook, she used only the best ingredients, especially for guests and strangers.