While Luc had taken a nap in the hammock that afternoon, she’d gone inside and taken a shower, then lounged about the cabin, sipping strawberry wine from a Wile E. Coyote tumbler and reading a copy of John Grisham’s The Finn, which she’d found upstairs in the loft bedroom. Luc had come in an hour later, yawning, with outstretched arms, which caused his denim cutoffs to drop lower on his hips. That image of exposed hipbones, flat abdomen, and half a navel would be imprinted on her memory forever.
He’d gone off to shower, as well. Now, still convinced that she wasn’t paying attention, he remarked with a chuckle, “First, you dream about me; now you daydream about me. Hot damn.”
“I did not… I was not… oh, never mind,” was her brilliant response.
He chucked her playfully under the chin as they continued to prepare an early dinner. “As I was saying, some people believe that the crawfish is descended from lobsters who followed the French Acadians when they were booted out of Canada and were forced to travel down to Louisiana. The farther they traveled, the tireder and smaller the lobsters became, till they were whittled down to the size of these little mudbugs here.” He cracked one of the critters and stuck the head in his mouth to suck out the rich meat, raw, then made a smacking noise of appreciation with his lips.
As Sylvie watched with fascination the sucking motion of his lips and the mischievous glimmer of his dark eyes, something new and primeval tugged inside her heart. He was a sinfully attractive man.
Luc winked at her.
Sylvie was mortified that he’d seen her reaction to him.
Then he shoved a crawfish in her mouth with the order “Suck.” She did, and was pleased to see his mouth part and his eyes darken and dilate as he watched her make quick work of the delicious meat.
“I think you make up half these stories,” she said, not wanting to think about his mouth or his eyes.
“Mais oui, chère, but that is the best part of being a Cajun. Back to my legend, which you so rudely interrupted. Those crawfish-nee-lobsters who emigrated from the north liked the Cajuns so much that they emulated them, even down to the way they built their homes with mud chimneys. In some low-lying streams, around water-logged cypress trees, you can still see dozens of those chimneys—a village of crawfish—each chimney telling you there’s a crawfish sleeping below, just waiting to be caught.”
“You’re a great storyteller, Luc.”
He grinned at her. “I know.”
“Did you hear about the Creole who went to heaven? When he arrived at the Pearly Gates, he asked St. Peter if they had crawfish there. When St. Peter said no, the man told him he might just as well go home.”
“Tsk-tsk, Sylv. I’ve heard that story before, but it was a Cajun, not a Creole. And it was gumbo, not crawfish.”
She laughed. “The one thing your people and mine… the Cajuns and the Creoles… have in common is good food,” she remarked.
“Yep, except that the Cajun dishes are more down-home and basic, while the Creole dishes are uptown-fancy.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“Really? Do you know why red beans and rice is a popular Cajun meal?”
She shook her head slowly, smiling to herself. This pleasant Luc was a new person to Sylvie, and one she was enjoying very much.
“Red beans were traditionally cooked by Cajun women on a Monday, which was, of course, wash day.”
“Of course.” She smiled outwardly now.
“Shush your sarcastic mouth, babe.” He tapped her on the lips with a forefinger. “This allowed the beans to cook for many hours without being tended. Even today, Monday is red beans and rice day in most Cajun households.”
“As I said, you’re a great storyteller.”
“Now it’s your turn. Tell me a Creole legend.”
“Well, there was supposedly a rich planter living in Southern Louisiana during the 1700’s who wanted to provide a spectacular wedding for his daughter. So, he imported thousands of silkworms from China. He fed them powdered gold, which caused them to spin gold thread throughout all the trees in his live-oak alley. Supposedly, this was the origin of the Spanish moss in our trees.”