“Hunk cowboys riding horses,” Tante Lulu announced with glee.
“Riding down the main street of Houma,” added Sylvie.
“Luc and Remy could carry a banner that says, ‘Triple L Dude Ranch and Health Spa’,” added Rachel.
“Maybe René’s old band, The Swamp Rats, could be playing their instruments,” added Tee-John.
“While we’re on horseback?” René’s eyebrows were raised in disbelief, but he clearly loved the idea.
“Clarence and Linc and Jimmy will want to be hunk cowboys, too,” Tante Lulu pointed out.
“Maybe we could hire a couple of college students, as well,” Sylvie said. “And don’t forget to include me and Rachel and Tante Lulu.”
“For sure,” Tante Lulu agreed. “We can be hottie cowgirls.”
“I think this is the dumbest idea I’ve ever heard of,” Raoul said. “Absolutely not! Never! No way!”
“Oooh, I have a good idea.” Rachel was jumping up and down in her seat. “Rusty could come riding his horse at the end, right into Charmaine’s shop. He could scoop her right up into his arms and carry her off!”
“Into the sunset?” Sylvie sighed.
“To have his way with her.” Tante Lulu sighed, too.
“Are you people for real?” Raoul said, but not one of them listened to him.
“So when should we do it? How ’bout this Saturday? It’ll be the week before Christmas, lots of people out shoppin’, but what the hey!”
“No!” Raoul yelled because no one was listening to him.
“You got a better idea? You unwillin’ to try everything possible to get Charmaine back? You gonna let yer pride get in the way?” Tante Lulu scrutinized him closely. When he sat silent, she said, “We’ll do it then!”
Raoul put his face in his hands, unable to comprehend the amazing spectacle these looney birds were planning, with him as the centerpiece.
A dozen St. Jude statues positioned around Tante Lulu’s house started laughing, or at least it seemed so to him. But maybe he was just having a mental breakdown.
When cowboys come to town…
Charmaine was in her Houma shop when the hoopla outside first began.
It was the Saturday before Christmas, one of the busiest of the year for her spa and all the businesses in the downtown area. So at first the sound of music didn’t draw her attention away from the French twist she was putting in Mrs. Sonnier’s hair.
After a few moments, though, the fact began to creep into her subconscious that this was rowdy Cajun music, not the usual Christmas fare. And there were a few Rebel yells tossed in, along with the occasional “Yee-haw!” Not to mention the little boy standing near the front desk with his mother, chattering excitedly, “Horses, Mommy. Lotsa horses, Mommy.”
Now, the Rebel yell was not uncommon in the South, nor was the jubilant “Yee-haw!” But horses in downtown Houma? At Christmas time?
The fine hairs stood out on the back of Charmaine’s neck in warning.
They wouldn’t. Would they?
He wouldn’t. Would he?
“Holy catfish! You gotta come see this, Charmaine.” It was her receptionist, Alice Mae, motioning her excitedly to the front of the spa.
“What is it?” she asked. I don’t really want to know.
“Some kind of parade or rodeo or somethin’. But, Lordy, Lordy, I ain’t never seen so many good-lookin’ cowboys in all my days, and I’m a regular at the Angola prison rodeo.”
“This is the craziest Santa Claus parade I’ve ever seen,” Mrs. Sonnier said, coming up beside her.
“Caint be the Santa Claus parade. They held that two weeks ago. Remember. George Thibodeaux was Saint Nick and he was drunk and puked on one of the elves,” one of her hairstylists, Edie Beatty, informed them.
“I know what it is. It’s them crazy LeDeuxs up to their usual antics.” Mrs. Sonnier glanced sheepishly at Charmaine and added, “No offense intended, dearie.”
“What usual antics?” Alice Mae wanted to know.
“Haven’t you ever seen them do the Cajun Men? They dance and sing and strip. Whoo-ee!” Edie said.
That was when Charmaine started to weep. She sensed what was about to happen, but she was frozen in place.
It had been difficult for her these past weeks: being kicked out by Raoul, his calling her before hanging up—a necessary but hard, hard thing for her to do—his leaving a message on her answering machine, which she hadn’t returned but had wanted to, very badly; his actually coming to her house and looking like sin in a pair of cowboy boots. Now this. How much more could one girl handle?