Bayou Born(8)

After placing the salad and bottle of dressing into a sturdy cardboard box, she added wooden “claws” for serving, then nervously hurried to the bedroom for one last check in the cheval mirror, the one her parents brought from Fleur de Lis, and completed a final once-over of her reflection.

Was she appropriately dressed for a faculty potluck? Did designer jeans and a blouse say casual, but smart? Hopefully. She hated the annoying jitterbug in her stomach. This wasn’t an audition. She already had a signed contract for the job. The intention of tonight’s event was fun.

But she hadn’t done fun very well for many months, maybe years. “Organize and execute” were easier. Second nature to her.

“This is a new life,” she said to her reflection.

She wanted a new path, right? That’s what she’d signed up for when she moved to Lakeview. She’d put “respectable” and “tradition” in the back seat and let “adventure” ride shotgun.

Heck, “adventure” needed to drive!

She re-checked the buttons on her sleeveless blouse with the tuxedo ruffle down the front. All buttoned correctly. The ruffle added a feminine touch—just in case she saw him. The mystery man from the storm. After all, that must have been a brilliant first impression she made, diving to the bookstore floor during the storm. He couldn’t possibly not remember her.

The man had gone when she had finally gotten it together.

With a sideways glance in the mirror, she checked her reflection again. A white blouse, dark blue jeans and Jimmy Choo shoes—her one big splurge for the summer. They boosted her confidence. She plucked a tissue from the box on her dresser and wiped a smudge of lipstick from the corner of her mouth.

“It’ll have to do.”

Bzzz. Bzzz. Bzzz

She raced to the kitchen without falling off the four-inch heels. The number wasn’t one she recognized. “Hello?”

“Bran—talk—home—” Camilla’s voice, she recognized it, but the connection was lousy.

“I can’t make out what you’re saying.” Why was she shouting into the phone? That never made things better.

“Talk—See—You—”

Before she could respond, the connection clicked, and her sister was gone. She pushed redial, but a rapid busy signal pulsed in her ear.

She waited a minute and tried again. This time the call went straight to voicemail.

“Call me back,” she said after the beep, then hung up. “Crap,” she muttered, scrolling through her contact list. She found the number she sought, then pushed the call button. “Momma, Camilla just called me,” she said before her mother had a chance to say hello. “The connection was bad. I’m on my way to a work function. If I give you the number, will you try to reach her?”

“Word for word, what did she say, exactly?” her mother asked.

“All I could make out was ‘talk’ and ‘home’ before the line went dead. If you reach her, and there’s no emergency, like she’s dying or something, tell her I’ll call her back at that number tomorrow. If it is an emergency, please call me back.”

“I’m just happy she called you.” The relief in her mother’s voice gave her pause. Momma always worried about each of them, but until now, Branna hadn’t understood how deeply Momma worried over Camilla, who was like a cat with nine lives and always landed on her feet.

Neither she nor Momma had handled Camilla’s current disappearing act very well.

“Love you, Momma. Got to run. Here’s the number.”

She ended the call after her mother’s final good-bye, then turned in a circle scanning the countertops for her car keys. She spied them beside the fruit bowl, grabbed them, and then hoisted the box with her dinner offering into her arms before heading out the door.

The sun blazed in the late afternoon sky. A few wispy white clouds scooted across blue. A breeze was like outdoor air conditioning and had swept away some of the day’s humidity.

Starting the car, she turned the A/C setting to high and blasted it, happy that air cooled her neck as she backed down the driveway.

Following the printed map, she drove the 35 mph speed limit. She’d heard the Westcott’s had a palatial-size home, however, given the size of the faculty, she guessed the gathering might be held outdoors. She glanced again at the directions as she neared the lake and navigated through the oldest part of town. It once had an Indian name, which translated meant “Alligator,” but as the town grew, the name changed to Lakeview in honor of the large body of water. Though, she’d been cautioned about wandering around the shoreline alone. A few gators still made it their home.

The road meandered. Coming around a bend, she spotted the yellow Victorian. No white pickup in sight. Had farmer-guy bought the place? Maybe in a few months, if she got up enough nerve, she'd knock on the door and ask for a tour. Most folks with old houses liked to show them off, though she still didn’t understand why Meredith had chosen to sell.

“Give up Fleur de Lis?” she said, shaking her head. “Not wanting to be the Keeper is one thing, selling the place to strangers, well, that just won’t ever happen.”

Generations of family had lived there. Currently, four generations moved in and out as needed; their home would always remain in the family. Linds, Covingtons, and Dutreys would ensure its succession forever.

Once past the yellow Victorian, she chuckled, remembering farmer-guy’s stained straw hat. Charlie One Horse. Her brother had bought one in Gatlinburg, Tennessee during a family vacation, and then thought he had to have a swagger to go with the hat. She had laughed so hard she’d cried. He always managed to brighten her mood. He was one man she would remove from the enemy-male list.

“Daddy, too.” She contemplated the list of men she knew. Many had wonderful attributes. There was only one man she’d toss to the Devil as bait.

“Steven,” she hissed.

If they’d married, they’d be celebrating their sixth-month anniversary—maybe. Odds were that if she’d married the snake, they’d be on their way to a divorce anyway. As Granddaddy Lind always said, “A leopard doesn’t change its spots.”

Steven hadn’t crossed her mind in a while. A welcomed relief to the agony and shame of learning that he was both a liar and a cheat. After breaking their engagement, she’d cried for days, but never confided the reason she refused to marry him. She couldn’t bring herself to say she’d found him in bed, the bed they picked out together, with another woman. As if that wasn’t bad enough, he had the unmitigated audacity to try to convince her that it wasn’t what she thought. Later, he tried to blame her with legal mumbo-jumbo about her part in the problem because he couldn’t keep his pants zipped!

He destroyed her trust.

But she hated herself for not reading the signs. Hindsight was always 20/20. Broken dates with lame excuses. Dragging his feet on wedding details. Her sister had even covered for him once. That made the pain of his betrayal cut deeper.

“All men don’t cheat,” she reminded herself. Could there be a world without men? She’d managed without one for six months, and it left her feeling wiser.

And now she was on her way to meet a man Dr. Brown had assigned to her. How would that work out?

She made a right turn and pulled through ornate, wrought-iron gates that swung open from tall stone pillars. Impressive, if not intimidating, the gates of Dr. Westcott’s home.

Vehicles parked along the wide u-shaped drive, some two abreast. She pulled her Volvo into the next open space and hoped someone wouldn’t block her in, in case she exited early.

“Hey, Branna Lind, glad you could make it!” Brian hollered.

He trotted in her direction as she stepped from her car. She waved to him, then spied the old beat-up white truck. Was farmer-guy there? It might be easier to make conversation with him, than with other faculty members. They could talk “house.” She wanted to hear about the remodeling, assuming he bought it. Of course, she’d make the appropriate apology for her prior rudeness.

“Hi Brian.” She smiled when he appeared beside her. She reached inside her trunk for the box with her salad.

“Here, let me,” Brian said, setting down a bag and extracting the box from her arms.

His familiar face eased the anxiety of meeting an entire staff of people. She picked up Brian’s bag. A couple of liters of soda.

“Guys,” Brian said. “We don’t cook.”

“Right.” She’d never had a guy cook for her. Most guys she knew were interested in wrangling a dinner invitation from her only to eat Greta’s cooking.

“So this is where the great and powerful Westcott lives?” she joked.

“Yes, Mrs. Westcott is very powerful.” Brian grinned. “She is a Littleton. They’re into everything...automotive.”

She cocked her head, urging him to continue.