He snorted, nervously.
“I don’ believe in long engagements for men like you. Yes, I said men like you; don’ you be givin’ me those dirty looks. You been havin’ impure thoughts since you a little boy. And I don’ want no hanky-panky ‘tween you two afore the wedding, love potion or no love potion. Well, maybe a little hanky-panky. Do you have any of those condos with you?”
A gurgling sound came from Sylvie’s throat. She was no longer amused by his aunt now that she was the subject of the love advice. He thought she was mumbling something that sounded like, “Engagement? Hanky-panky? Me?”
“It’s condoms, not condos,” he corrected his aunt with a belated gasp of shock.
She ignored him, continuing her tirade. “I’ll start workin’ on the wedding quilt once I catch that Dubois baby.”
“Don’t you dare start any wedding quilt for me,” Sylvie snapped. Then she was immediately apologetic. “I mean, I’m sure you make lovely quilts, but it’s just that—”
It was as if she hadn’t even spoken. Tante Lulu was still fixated on him. “Did you say a proper thank-you prayer to St. Jude for sending you a good woman to love you? Maybe you better make a novena. St. Jude had to work extra hard on you.”
Luc gave up arguing with his aunt. Sylvie looked as if she’d been hit with a Mack truck, or Tante Lulu’s Impala, which was as big as a Mack truck.
Luckily, the car came to a screeching halt in front of The Swamp Shack. Every bird within a mile took flight in the dust she raised.
Tante Lulu’s parting words to him were. “How many bébés you plannin’ to have? Lordy, I ain’t even started knittin’ baby afghans yet. I been too busy tryin’ to get you married off.”
Sylvie was stunned speechless.
For a brief moment, he closed his eyes and said a silent prayer. Dear St. Jude, you are needed here… big-time.
He thought he heard a voice in his head answer, with a lazy Cajun drawl, “Let the good times roll.”
Some saints had a warped sense of humor.
It was early evening, and Luc was carrying a tray from the back entrance of The Swamp Shack… better known as Swampy’s. The tray was loaded down with two pottery bowls of steaming crawfish gumbo, a platter of warm cornbread oozing butter, frosted glasses of iced tea, a stack of beignets covered with powdered sugar, and hot coffee.
His brother Remy, a rancher in Northern Louisiana, would be coming just before dawn with a hydroplane normally used to transport feed to far ranges. Now it would be used to take him and Sylvie to a cabin Luc owned on a remote bayou.
With René at his side now, he walked carefully along the planks of the wharf where his brother had found a temporary hiding place for them that belonged to a friend of his—an ancient houseboat no longer capable of movement over the bayou’s intricate waterways. There were a couple dozen other vessels docked there, as well… everything from fancy motorboats to air boats to primitive pirogues to “go devils,” gas-powered boats that could travel through extremely shallow water. Most of them belonged to customers of Swampy’s, the no-fuss restaurant-bar serving hearty Louisiana foods during the day and loud Cajun honky-tonk music at night. Most of the time René lived on a bayou closer to the salt waters of the Gulf, on a commercial shrimp boat that he owned in partnership with two other Cajun fishermen, but he did stay here on the houseboat occasionally when performing gigs at area nightclubs, fire halls, or wedding receptions.
Luc was fairly certain that the half-wits chasing after them were unaware of this houseboat. They were safe… for now, at least.
“This is all my fault, Luc. I never should have involved you in the shrimpers’ fight. Maybe we should give up before someone gets hurt,” René said. Even more ominous than his words was the fact that René was tucking a small pistol into the back waistband of his jeans, which was then covered by a denim jacket. Just as Luc’s weapon was hidden by the suede vest he’d grabbed when fleeing his apartment.