The only highlight of the day had been his dinner meeting with Frank Zerby, the detective Luc had recommended. Zerby had impressed him with his professionalism and the work he’d done thus far, investigating the police officer who’d been a prime witness in his conviction, as well as the oil interests who’d been harassing his father for a long time. There was no doubt in Zerby’s mind, and in Raoul’s now that they’d talked, that he would get his conviction reversed eventually. Zerby would also help him uncover details about his father’s death but warned him that he might have to request an autopsy.
But first, he had to turn this ranch around. And decide what to do with an ex-wife who was not an ex-wife. And plan a future that right now looked like a freakin’ dead end. And face a houseful of people in three days and pretend to be thankful. How had his life gotten so hopeless? He was thirty-one years old, but he felt about ninety.
After the shower, he made his way back to his bedroom in the dark, where he just about knocked himself out when he tripped over some large object. Hopping about on one foot and swearing under his breath at the pain in his bruised shin, he flicked on the light and saw that someone had placed Tante Lulu’s hope chest at the foot of his bed. “Sonofabitch!” he said aloud now, an all encompassing exclamation of disgust over the day’s events, the already swelling bump on his leg, and the ridiculous piece of furniture. Once he’d satisfied himself that he wouldn’t die from his injury, he went over and lifted the lid. Inside were layer upon layer of embroidered bed linens, towels, hand-woven Cajun blankets, a quilt, and doilies. And from all of them wafted up to him the scent of roses. A quick examination showed there were dryer sheets mixed among the fabrics. He realized then, with hysterical irrelevance, he supposed, that Charmaine must have learned this trick from Tante Lulu.
After that, he lay in bed for more than an hour, exhausted but unable to sleep. Finally, he pulled on a pair of boxer shorts and padded off to—where else?—Charmaine’s room. Not the wisest decision in the world, but being wise was beyond his grasp tonight with all the grief that weighed him down.
A full moon allowed him to see somewhat. Charmaine lay on one side with her hands folded together prayerlike under one cheek. A slight breeze drifted through the two open windows, but it was warm and muggy tonight. As a result, she was uncovered, wearing only a red nightshirt, which had ridden up her thighs to expose the edge of her white panties. No, on closer examination, it wasn’t a nightshirt. It was another old LSU T-shirt of his. Why that should be an adrenaline kick in his groin was beyond him. All he knew was that he got immense pleasure from her wearing an item of his clothing. Way pathetic in the Playboy book of cool, he would imagine. Not that he had been cool for a long time, if ever.
He smiled and eased himself carefully onto the double bed behind Charmaine. When he was up against her spoon fashion, he laid one arm over the pillow on which her head rested and the other arm over her hip, with his hand spread over her cloth-covered belly. Only then did he sigh softly. It was like coming home… just what he needed tonight.
Luckily, Charmaine didn’t wake up and belt him one. He would just rest here for a moment. Just one blissful second… or two…
He awakened God only knew how much later with a jolt. He was lying flat on his back. Charmaine was plastered all over him like honey on a hot rock, and he meant that in the best possible way. Her face was nestled in his chest hairs. One leg had wedged itself between his thighs with her knee resting up against his… well, what a more poetic person might have called his Longfellow.
The steady breath of her deep sleep against his heart brought tears to his eyes. For a long time, he’d needed to hold her like this, more than he’d realized. He gently kissed the top of her hair and ran a hand over her back from shoulder to waist and up again.