“Tante Lulu,” he said with patience, “most seventy-five-year-old women don’t have bright blond hair.”
“I am not seventy-five,” Tante Lulu lied indignantly. “I’m only sixty-five.”
In your dreams, Auntie, he thought. But what he said was, “Oh, I forgot.”
Actually, Luc couldn’t care less what Tante Lulu did with her hair. He loved the old bat to pieces, would do anything in the world for her. She’d been there for him through all the agonizing years of his youth. How many times had she hidden and protected him when his father had come looking for him, belt strap in hand? How many times had she taken blows for him?
Besides, when it came to hair, all Luc could picture in his sluggish brain was silky black hair, highlighted by a white magnolia behind one ear.
But he refused to succumb to that ongoing fantasy.
Yawning widely, he glanced over at the bedside clock and saw that it was noon. “Shouldn’t you be at Bingo Heaven? You always go to Bingo Heaven after Mass on Sunday.” Tante Lulu was a bingo fanatic. And a lottery fanatic. And a racetrack fanatic. In fact, for her last birthday—her seventy-fifth, no matter what she said—he’d taken her to Pelican Track to bet on the ponies. She’d had such a good time, you would have thought he’d taken her to Buckingham Palace.
“Sunday? This ain’t Sunday. You’ve lost a day, sonny boy. It’s Monday.”
“Monday? It can’t be! I have an appointment in two hours.” He jumped up, which caused his head to throb like a fifty-pound jackhammer. Making some swift mental calculations on how long it would take him to shower, shave, and get on over to Terrebonne Pharmaceuticals, he rubbed his bristly face and realized that he must not have shaved in days.
How had he lost a day? He’d been at Swampy’s—The Swamp Shack—where René’s band had been playing last night—no, it was the night before that… Saturday, after he’d left the party. The party where he’d seen Sylvie in that Frederick’s of the Bayou backless sundress.
Aaarrgh! There I go again… thinking about Sylvie.
Well, she did look hot in that sundress.
Good Lord! Where did I ever get the idea that Sylvie Fontaine is hot? Hell, she’s Ice Breaux to the frigid bone, guar-an-teed.
“Stop those dirty thoughts, Lucien LeDeux.”
Tante Lulu chastised. She was picking up dirty clothes off the floor and placing them in a hamper. Then, she opened a large armoire and started to lay out clean, neatly pressed slacks, shirts, socks, and underwear, still in their laundry packets. “Go take a shower. I’ll make you a good Cajun breakfast… boudin sausage, scrambled eggs with shrimp, fried okra, pan bread, beignets, and coffee.”
After a quick visit to the bathroom, he shrugged on a pair of sweat pants and followed her into the kitchen, where she was unloading a bag of groceries she’d brought with her. Leaning on the open refrigerator door, he contemplated the nothingness inside the refrigerator and said, “You don’t have to cook that stuff for me.” Besides, he was sure to lose every mouthful if he put anything other than coffee in his stomach.
“I want to,” she said with a shrug, “although you should be havin’ a wife to do for you.” It was her continual gripe. Find a good woman, Luc. That’s what you need. “What you need is to find a good woman, Luc.”
“Women today are liberated, Auntie. They bring home the bacon, they don’t fry it up no more. In fact, they probably buy turkey bacon—less cholesterol—and make the husband do the cooking.”
“Humph! Not a good old-fashioned Cajun girl.”
He just grinned at her. “How come you’re here on a Monday morning?” he asked, idly scratching his chest.
“Two reasons,” she said, and continued to unload her grocery bag. She’d brought enough foodstuffs to last him a week.
“Well?” he prodded finally.
“I brought you some more embroidered pillow cases for your hope chest. And a new Cajun blanket I just finished weaving. Oh, and another St. Jude statuette. You can put this one in the bedroom,” she offered meaningfully. St. Jude was the patron saint of hopeless cases. Needless to say, his aunt thought he was pretty nigh hopeless. He had enough St. Jude statues in his apartment to open a gallery, except they were mostly plastic.