He thought she would laugh and make a sarcastic remark, but instead, she said softly, “It was wonderful to me.”
“Me too,” he said after a long pause. This was dangerous, dangerous territory. “I’m going out on the porch to finish this beer with Jude.”
She nodded.
Whether that meant she would join him once her pores closed up or not, he wasn’t sure. If she was smart, she’d skedaddle off to bed. Her bed. If he was smart, he’d skedaddle off to bed, too. Alone.
When was either of us that smart?
Raoul sat on the rocker for quite a while, listening to BeauSoleil sing that classic “Jolé Blon.” No Charmaine. But that was all right. It was nice to have this quiet time.
He really did love this ranch. Ever since his mother brought him here when he was four, the Triple L had entranced him. A younger Clarence had been around then, and he’d taken him out to the barn to show him some new calves. Actually, he’d probably wanted to protect him from the shouting that was going on in the ranch house. Apparently, his mother had never bothered to inform his father until then that their weekend affair five years earlier had resulted in a son, although she’d made sure Charles Lanier’s name was on the birth certificate as father.
The only reason she’d been dropping the Daddy bomb then had been that she needed some place to dump her kid while she went off to Acadia, a French province in Canada, for three months to do research for a masters degree in the history of Cajun culture. She’d needed a babysitter, pure and simple.
His mother had managed to drop him off for three months on that first occasion and periodically for short visits over the years, but only when it had been convenient for her. When his father had tried to gain custody, she’d dug in her heels and stopped the visits altogether for years.
“Why so grim, cowboy?” Charmaine asked, perching herself on the porch rail off to his right. Even with the dim light coming from the kitchen, he could see that her face glowed from her recent ministrations.
Maybe I should let her give me one of those facials, after all. Then again, maybe not.
“Just thinkin’ about my dad and my mom.”
“Whoo-ee! An explosive combination, those two.”
“Yep.”
“Do you see your mother very often?”
He shook his head. “Haven’t seen her for more than two years.”
“Really? I saw her on a local TV station last month. She’s making quite a name for herself in academic circles, isn’t she?”
He nodded. His mother was the well-known Dr. Josette Pitre. Born and raised on Bayou Teche, she had been and still was a free spirit, a hippie at a time when hippies were already out of style. “She fancies herself the premier expert on Cajun culture, I hear,” he said.
“She has done a lot to gain respect for Cajuns, not just the language but in art and history and all that stuff.”
“Hey, sweetheart, since when did you become a cheerleader for my mother? As I recall, she didn’t like you from the get-go and didn’t mind telling you so.”
Charmaine shrugged with a “who cares” attitude. “Lots of people don’t like me.”
Like Amelie.
“She couldn’t quite get over her son marrying a hair dresser wannabe. Talk about! My only saving grace in her eyes was that I was Cajun. No offense, baby, but your mother is a bitch. That doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate the good work she’s done, though.”
There had been a period a few decades back when the public schools of southern Louisiana had tried to wipe out the Cajun dialect and customs from all its native students, considering it inferior to the French language and culture. Eventually, that misguided movement had been reversed, thank God, because of lots of dedicated individuals, including his mother. He’d grown up being fluent in classic French, Cajun French, and good old Southern English under his mother’s tutelage. Lot of good that did him when he was sticking his arm up to the elbow in a pregnant cow’s ass.