“He is in mine. Whoo-ee! When he wears those short shorts, I just melt.”
Now, that was an image he did not need—his seventy-nine-year-old great aunt in hormone overload. Talk about! But it did explain her attire: a pink headband encircling tight white curls, a red tank top with the logo exercise that!, purple nylon running shorts, and white athletic shoes with short anklets sporting pink pom-poms on the back. She was a five-foot-zero package of wrinkled skinniness, the last person in the world in need of a workout. That she was a noted traiteur, or folk healer, while at the same time a bit batty, was a fact he and his brothers had accepted all their lives.
He adored the old lady. They all did.
He started to walk toward her and cracked his shin against the big wooden box in the middle of the porch. “Ow, ow, ow!” he squealed aloud—screaming much fouler words in his head—and hopped about on one foot.
“I tol’ you ya shoulda put yer hope chest inside,” Tante Lulu said as she raised her head slightly to see what all his ruckus was about. “Doan want to get rain or bird poop on it or nuthin’.”
Actually, inside wasn’t much better than outside when it came to René’s raised log house. He had the roof and frame up, but no windows. It was all just one big room at this point, aside from the bathroom, which was operational thanks to a rain-filled cistern. A battery-operated generator provided electricity for the fridge and stove. That was it. Except for a card table, two folding chairs, and a bed with mosquito netting, there was no furniture. That’s the way he liked it.
Of course, now he had a hope chest to add to his furnishings. And the midget-size plastic St. Jude statue sitting in the front yard, another of Tante Lulu’s “gifts.” St. Jude was the patron saint of hopeless causes. Tante Lulu was giving him a message with both her gifts.
“Auntie, there is something I need to say to you. My life is in shambles right now. I quit my job. I’m burned out totally. Don’t even think of trying to set me up with some woman. I am not in the market for a wife.”
René was no fool. He knew the purpose of his great aunt’s hope chest and statue. Whenever she thought it was time for one of her nephews to bite the bullet, she started in on them. Embroidered pillow cases, bridal quilts, doilies, for chrissake. She was a one-woman Delta Force when she got a bee in her matchmaking bonnet.
Right now, he was the bee.
Tante Lulu ignored everything he said and continued on about the exercise guru. “Charmaine is gonna try to get us tickets to go see Richard—I likes to call him Richard, or Dickie—next time he comes to N’awlins.”
Dickie? Mon dieu!
“Mebbe I’ll even get picked fer one of his TV shows.”
That was a hopeless wish if he ever heard one. He hoped. He thought a moment, then said silently, just in case, St. Jude, you wouldn’t! Would you?
Charmaine was his half-sister and as much a bubble-head as Tante Lulu. The prospect of his great aunt doing jumping jacks on TV was downright scary. But then, Tante Lulu and Charmaine had entered a belly dancing contest not too long ago. So, it was not out of the realm of possibilities.
“Mebbe you could go to his show with us. Mebbe you could meet a girl there. Then I wouldn’t have to fix you up.”
“Don’t you dare try fixing me up.”
“And Charmaine’s fixin’ to get me the latest video of Sweatin’ to the Oldies fer my birthday in September. You want she should get you one, too?”
“No, I don’t want an exercise video. Besides, I thought Charmaine was planning a big birthday bash for your gift.”
“Cain’t a girl get two gifts? Jeesh!” She eyed him craftily and added, “Actually, I’m hopin’ fer three gifts.”
At first, he didn’t understand. Then he raised both hands in protest. “No, no, no! I am not getting leg-shackled to some woman just to give you a birthday present. How about I take you to the race track again this year for a birthday gift, like I did last year?”