Charmaine laughed.
Tante Lulu gave her a once-over and asked pointedly, “You still a virgin?”
Charmaine nodded.
“Pfff! That Rusty ain’t the man I thought he was then.”
“Oh, he’s the man you thought, all right. Give me a little credit for being stronger.”
“Mebbe he needs some romance advice.”
“He’s getting all the advice he needs from one senior-citizen love advisor. He sure doesn’t need two.”
“Who you callin’ a senior citizen?” Tante Lulu tapped her chin thoughtfully for a second or two. “You referrin’ to that Clarence Guidry? Good, good. That fella knows stuff.”
Stuff? I do not want to know what stuff Clarence knows.
“Hey, Charmaine. How’s ranch life suitin’ ya?” Remy called out.
“Hey, Remy,” Charmaine replied, waving to her half brother, who was beginning to remove a bunch of bags and boxes and coolers from the helicopter. Big coolers. The coolers must hold perishable food. Oh, my!
Remy was a former Air Force pilot who’d been burned badly during Desert Storm. As a result, one side of his face was drop-dead gorgeous; the other side was not. He’d recently married Rachel Fortier, a Feng Shui decorator from Washington, D.C. A yankee, of all things!
“Where’s Rachel?” she asked. “I thought she was coming with you.”
“No room.” Remy rolled his eyes meaningfully toward the overpacked copter. “Rachel and I will be coming back on Thursday, though. For your Thanksgiving feast.”
Feast? What feast? “That’s nice. A holiday is always more special when there’s company.” What feast?
“Oh, there’ll be company, all right. Me, Rachel, Luc, Sylvie, their three kids. Who else, Tante Lulu?” He winked at Charmaine, knowing full well that Tante Lulu had issued all these invitations without consulting her.
Tante Lulu had been standing with her hands on her non-existent hips surveying the ranch. Without turning around, she answered, “Tee-John and mebbe René if he kin get away from his job up North.” Any place above Kentucky was considered “up North” to Tante Lulu, a born and bred Southerner. Actually, René was an environmental lobbyist who worked in D.C.
Charmaine began to do a mental calculation in her head. Herself, Rusty, Clarence, Linc, Jimmy, Tante Lulu, Remy, Rachel, Luc, Sylvie, Tee-John, three kids, maybe Jimmy’s dad, and maybe René. Sixteen people. Mon Dieu, it will be a feast.
“What a mess!” Tante Lulu exclaimed with a wide smile on her crinkled face. She was staring at the unpainted clapboard house and the seedy landscaping, surely envisioning all the projects she would be able to take on. The old lady turned to Remy then, who had a huge stack of stuff piled in the middle of the yard and was still unloading, including a St. Jude statue even bigger than the one already here. “When you get done bringin’ that stuff in, Remy, how ’bout you shoot me one of them steers. I’m in the mood fer a barbecue t’night. Good thing I brought a batch of my homemade Cajun bastin’ sauce.” She licked her lips in anticipation. With that, Tante Lulu walked briskly toward the ranch house, already making mental lists, no doubt, of all the things to be done.
Remy looked at Charmaine. “Me? She expects me to shoot a cow? And then skin it and gut it. I… don’t… think… so!”
“What’s that?” Charmaine asked as he lifted a big chest out of the copter. It was made of wood, highly carved, about the size of a blanket chest. “Oh, my God! It’s a hope chest. One of Tante Lulu’s famous hope chests.” She frowned with confusion.
“It’s not for you.” Remy grinned.
When understanding dawned, Charmaine grinned, too. “For Rusty?”
“Yep.”
“He doesn’t stand a chance.” I wonder if that means I don’t stand a chance, either.
“Y’all better stop dawdlin’ and hurry on in here,” Tante Lulu yelled from the front door. She was already holding a feather duster in one hand and a gumbo pot in the other. An apron was tied around her tiny waist, and a kerchief had replaced the cowgirl hat on her head. “There’s a load of work to do here.”
Charmaine and Remy exchanged a quick glance. “None of us stand a chance,” Charmaine said then.