“It’s not funny,” Sylvie said.
“Oh, yes, it is, Sylv. You and ‘The Bad Boy of the Bayous.’ Ay-yi-yi!” She fanned herself dramatically. “Seriously, hon, isn’t this the greatest test you could give your potion… two archenemies? You should take advantage of the situation. I hear those Cajuns are fab-u-lous lovers.”
Sylvie arched a brow with skepticism.
Blanche finished off her second margarita and nodded her head as if agreeing with herself. “Best of all, their buns stay hard longer… not to mention other body parts.” Blanche rolled her eyes meaningfully.
Sylvie couldn’t help laughing. “You should say that on your talk show. You’d have women flocking to Louisiana like homing pigeons, searching for a hot Cajun. The tourist commission would declare you a state treasure… just like that John Berendt guy promoted Savannah with his book Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil.”
“It’s the truth, honey. Didn’t you ever hear the story about the beginning of the oil boom in Texas?”
Sylvie groaned. There was nothing Blanche liked better than to tell a story… her own embellished version.
“All these Cajun men crossed the border to work on the oil rigs, and the Texas women went full-tilt-boogie wild for them,” Blanche said. “Pretty soon all the Texas men were wondering what those swaggering Cajun men had that they didn’t… what made them so virile.” She jiggled her eyebrows at Sylvie on that last word. “Well, the wily Cajuns told them that it was the fat in those ol’ crawfish they ate all the time. And sure enough, those dumb Texans commenced scarfing up mud-bug fat. Some people say that’s what started the popularity of crawfish.” The whole time she talked, Blanche gave her story the drawn-out, Southern Creole accent that endeared her to thousands of radio fans.
Sylvie reached over and squeezed Blanche’s hand. Thank God for this good friend who could make her smile, even when her world might conceivably be about to self-destruct. All because of Lucien LeJerk.
“Sylvie Marie, you know Mr. Sommese, don’t you?” her mother said, having come up behind them unexpectedly. The cool stare Inez leveled her way said clearly that Sylvie was failing in her responsibilities as a dutiful daughter to mix with the crowd. Sylvie had always failed in her mother’s eyes, in one way or another.
As usual, Inez Breaux-Fontaine was decked out in understated elegance, from her Carrier diamond-stud earrings to simple pleated slacks of cream linen topped by a tailored, rose silk blouse. A lady never makes herself conspicuous, Sylvie Marie. Inez’s face was tight-skinned perfection that would do a forty-year-old woman proud, let alone one of fifty-five, thanks to a lifelong regimen of Erno Lazlo facial products and a few nips and tucks. Have you been out in the sun again, Sylvie Marie? Tsk-tsk. A real lady does not freckle. Not a single hair on Inez’s trademark chic black bob would dare be out of place or, God forbid, turn gray. When are you going to find a hair style that suits you, Sylvie Marie? Do you like being so plain?
Sylvie and Blanche both stood, though they were a little wobbly on their feet, which drew another icy glare from Inez. Sylvie was bound to hear more about this indiscretion later. A lady never overindulges, Sylvie Marie.
“Hi, Matt,” Sylvie and Blanche both said at the same time.
Matt Sommese was a Times-Picayune reporter they’d met on innumerable occasions over the years. After exchanging a few pleasantries, Inez drifted off to perform her hostess duties. Inez had drifting down to an art form, while Sylvie still suffered inside from chronic shyness, a condition she fought to hide and overcome. Blanche excused herself to go to the ladies’ room.
After some small talk, Matt asked, “So, Sylvie, when you gonna let me examine that voodoo journal of your great-grandmother’s?”
“It belonged to my great-grandmother many times removed,” she corrected. “And the answer is the same as it was last time you asked. Never. It’s a private family possession.”
Matt was working on an in-depth series of stories about voodoo and its continuing existence in Louisiana. In fact, there had been two suspicious ritual-type deaths during the past year that locals attributed to powerful gris-gris. Matt probably hoped to get a Pulitzer Prize, the way his fellow journalists at the New Orleans paper had gotten one for a 1997 series on the failing bayou ecosystem. Well, he wasn’t going to get it with her family secrets… especially since she already had reservations about having used some of the information from the voodoo journal for her formula… especially since there was an unwritten family agreement that the journal’s contents were to be kept secret.