“Sylvie! I never took you for a romantic.”
“But I prefer the Houma Indian legend about the Spanish moss. It’s said there was once a Houma Indian princess who was killed by an enemy tribe during her wedding ceremony. In despair, her mourning family cut off all her luxuriant hair and spread it on the limbs of the oak tree under which she was buried. A fierce wind came up—probably her spirit—and the strands of hair blew here and there, landing in other tree limbs. Over time, the black hairs turned to gray. And, voila, our current Spanish moss—a tribute to those who are ill-fated in love.”
“Yep, a one-hundred-proof romantic,” Luc declared with noticeable delight.
Eventually, they prepared and ate the meal, which was plain, but sumptuous. Boiled crawfish, dipped in melted butter, as an appetizer. A potluck jambalaya that contained crawfish, Cajun sausage, chunks of Spam, and canned chicken. Luc had surprised her with his talent for making light-as-air beaten biscuits, from scratch. She’d made her great-grandmother’s recipe for Creole “dirty rice.” On the side, they nibbled at a pokeweed and vinegar salad. All washed down with cold beer. For dessert, they had the last of Tante Lulu’s beignets and rich cafe au lait.
As good as the food was, the best part was working side by side with Luc. There was an underlying sexual tension ricochetting between them, but more important, and more alarming, a sense of friendship.
She was growing to like Luc LeDeux, and that was a road that led to inevitable heartbreak. That, combined with the sexual attraction that was growing between them by leaps and bounds, made her feel needy and pathetic. Like a timid teenager with a first crush.
They finished cleaning up the dishes and the kitchen and Luc pulled out a map, which he spread over the table. “I want to show you the route we’ll be taking tomorrow,” he said, and ran a forefinger along a line indicating a bayou. From the cabin to the spot Luc indicated was roughly twenty miles. Sylvie wasn’t in bad physical shape, but she wasn’t sure she was up to that much paddling.
“I still don’t see why we have to travel so far in a pirogue to get water samples when we could wait till next week and do it in comfort by motorboat.”
Luc thought for a moment. The only sounds were of BeauSoleil’s latest album “Cajunization,” which was playing on a portable CD player on the counter, as it had been all through dinner. The music, like Luc, was outrageous, and soulful, and teasing, and fun.
“This is the best way, Sylv. We can maneuver the pirogue into some back bayous that aren’t accessible by motorboat. And there’s the element of surprise. No one would expect us to show up in Cypress Oil’s backyard while they’re looking for us. Besides, rushing in there by motorboat would be tantamount to shouting our presence with a foghorn.”
She shrugged. “I suppose you’re right.” But she had something else on her mind now. All this time spent with Luc and she was failing to work on the most important thing in her life—the love potion.
“Why are you looking at me funny?” Luc asked.
“I was just wondering if I could take your pulse now… while you’re… uh, normal. I need to get a base pulse for you, to measure against those times when you’re… uh, not normal.”
He threw his head back and laughed. “Oh, Sylv! What makes you think I’m normal now?”
“Give me a break. We’re talking about maps and pirogues and oil pollution. In the midst of all that dry stuff, you can’t possibly be…” She let her words trail off.
“Aroused?” He grinned.
“Yeah,” she snapped:
“Exactly what do you consider normal?”
“Oh, forget it,” she said. “I’ll take your pulse later, when you least expect it… maybe when you’re sleeping or something.”
“Don’t you dare sneak up on me when I’m sleeping. I won’t be responsible for my actions, then.”
Oh, the heck with it! She grabbed for his wrist and began to silently count the pulse beats. He had to be kidding about not being “normal” right now. A minute later, her eyes shot up to connect with Luc’s. His heart was racing a mile a minute.