*****By
Sandra Hill
CHAPTER ONE
It's amazing what you can find in a supermarket today...
Brenda Caslow was standing in the personal products aisle of the A & P when she heard the first scream.
It was immediately followed by another scream, then shouts of:
"It's him! Omigod, It's him!"
"Hurry, Ralph, buy a camera."
"Whoa! He is hot."
"Maybe he'll sign my t-shirt."
"Maybe he'll sign my bra."
That's all Brenda needed to hear. She knew what it was...rather, who it was. The louse must have tracked her to the grocery store. Lance Caslow, her ex-husband.
He sauntered up to her and smiled. Probably figured one smile and she'd be melting at his feet, right here under the suppositories and...oh, no!...condoms.
Actually, his smile did make her melt. Always had. Ever since they were kids, riding their tricycles down the neighborhood sidewalk. Lance had shown his competitive spirit even then; he'd always insisted she had to race him, and he always won. She'd had to give up her stash of Tootsie Roll Pops then as a prize. Later, she gave up lots more.
They got married right out of high school, had been together for nine years before she got pregnant, and were divorced three years later. A lot of history there.
And, hot damn, giving him a quick head-to-toe survey, she could see why women flocked all over him, and not just because he was a NASCAR superhero. He was tall...well, six foot to her five-six. He had dark blond hair, spritzed up right now into one of those silly styles that looked as if it had been combed with a mixer, classic facial features, a golden tan, and a body to die for with not an ounce of fat. She should be so lucky. On a perpetual diet, Brenda had more curves than a Slinky. In fact, she'd been about to buy some diet pills. Not that they ever worked.
"Hey, babe," he said casually, as if he showed up in the A & P on a regular basis. More like, never. He leaned forward to give her a kiss.
She turned her head, and his lips met her cheek. Even that caused little ripples of pleasure to ricochet through her body in anticipation of more. Not gonna happen.
"Are you stalking me?"
"Me?" He slapped a hand over his heart in mock affront.
Then he grew more serious. "It's the only way I can get you to talk to me."
"We have nothing to say."
"Yeah, we do." He tugged at one of the blonde curls framing her face, the bane of her life. "Your hair looks different. Nice."
"Highlights."
"I like it. Oh, no!" He took the box that she still clutched in her hand. "Diet pills! You aren't still obsessing over your weight, are you? Believe me, you look great just the way you are."
"Hah! I'm always going to be a size ten, when the ideal is a size six. I'm always going to have curves, when slim is in. I'm getting older, and your girlfriends are getting younger."
"I'm the same age you are, and thirty-five isn't old. As for your curves, I love each and every one of them."
And he did. Brenda knew that. He had adored her body, with all its imperfections. "Listen, I don't have time for this."
"You still working for that treasure hunting company? Jinxed?" He was stalling for time.
"Not Jinxed. Jinx, as in Jinx, Inc. And the answer is yes."
"You ever gonna come back to NASCAR to work in the pits?"
Brenda was a top notch mechanic. When Lance had first gone to Indiana to start racing, she'd gone along as a mechanic. Women had been dogging him then, too, but she'd been there to put the kibosh on any hanky panky.
"How did you find me?"
"Uh..."
"You rat. You've been pumping Patti again, haven't you?" Patti was their seven-year-old daughter.
"It didn't take much pumping." The little rascal, like many other casualties of divorce, adored her father and wanted them to get back together again.
Just then, they noticed the crowd which had gathered at both ends of the aisle, craning their necks to see them, creeping closer and closer as newcomers pushed from the back. They were mostly quiet, watching. Some were flashing disposable cameras.
Damn! I'll probably see us on the cover of The Star next week.
"Hey, folks, great to see ya." It was amazing to watch Lance morph into his celebrity persona. "I'll sign some autographs if you move yourselves out to the parking lot, in an orderly fashion. I've gotta talk to my wife here."
Where did he learn to handle a crowd like that? Certainly not growing up in Perth Amboy. He gained polish over the years. I gained weight.
He put an arm around her shoulders, and squeezed.
She squirmed out of his embrace. Being that close to Lance was dangerous. "I'm not his wife," she yelled out, but no one was listening. The herd was rushing to the parking lot to get the best positions. "Anymore," she added more weekly.
"Semantics," he commented.
She and Lance had divorced five years ago. It had not been pretty. Lance had to be dragged kicking and screaming into court. Even then, he'd told the judge he didn't want a divorce. Unfortunately, actions spoke louder than words.
"I still feel like your husband. I still wear my wedding band. C'mon, Brendie, let's go somewhere and talk. I can't be charming in the middle of fifty types of sanitary napkins."
She hated that he called her Brendie, mainly because she used to love the way he called her Brendie. He would whisper that name when he... I am not going there. No way! "You could be charming in the middle of a pig sty, covered with hog doo-doo, and you know it."
He shrugged. "Have dinner with me. Or a drink. Yeah, drinks would be good."
She had to smile. "So you can get me drunk and have your way with me?"
"God, yes!"
"Lance," she said with a whooshy exhale, "how many women have you made love to?"
"Ever?" He was clearly shocked to be put on such a wide spot.
"Ever?"
"None."
"Puh-leeze!"
"You said making love. I've had sex with lots of women, but I only ever made love with one. You."
"Semantics," she repeated his own word back at him. "You and Bill Clinton oughta form a club."
"You believed everything you read in those tabloids, honey, and they just weren't true."
"I know that, but pictures don't lie. And that blonde bimbo was sitting on your lap with her hand on your butt right smack dab on the front page of the National Enquirer."
"Pictures lie, too."
"You're giving me a headache. We have been over this so many times."
"I never, ever, cheated on you while we were together."
"Obviously, you and I have different definitions of cheating. And, by the way, I notice your careful choice of words. `While we were together.' How about while we were married but separated?"
His face flushed. "I was angry."
"I was angry, too."
"Okay, I was stupid."
"That was never in doubt."
"Give me another chance, baby."
"No." She saw the grief on his face, this man that she knew so well. But he had hurt her so badly. Over and over. His celebrity had become more important than her. And the groupies...there were all those beautiful women just waiting to jump in bed with the winner of the next Brickhouse, or Daytona, or race du jour.
"I love you."
Oh, that was a low blow, especially when he said it with tears welling in his eyes.
"I don't love you any more," she lied. "I don't even like you."
"Yeah, you do. Give me fifteen minutes in a private room, and I'll prove it to you."
"You are such a...a toad."
"Yeah, well, you must have a taste for pond scum because there was a time when you enjoyed licking me all over. It's a wonder you don't have warts on your tongue."
She knew he spoke from pride and disappointment. That didn't excuse his crudity. "You jerk!"
"I love you, too, baby."
She grabbed hold of her own short curls and tugged with frustration. "Aaarrgh! You're driving me crazy."
"I take that as a good sign."
"You're delusional."
"I'm not giving up, Brendie. And you know why?"
She was probably going to regret this, but she asked, "Why?"
"Because of this." He pulled her into his arms and wouldn't let go, even when she smacked him on his shoulders and the side of his head. Then he lowered his mouth to hers, open mouthed and hungry. He devoured her with his never-ending kiss till she softened with a moan of surrender and opened her mouth to his, kissing him back with a traitorous fervor. When he finally released her, she had to hold onto the grocery cart or risk melting to the floor in an erotic puddle.
To give him credit, he didn't smirk or make a gloating remark. Instead, he used his thumb to caress her bottom lip and said in a raw voice, "That's why I'm not giving up, babe."
With those words, he walked off.
And she wondered how she was going to withstand his next assault, never doubting he would try again. And again. And again.
*****
Me and Pamela WHO?
Lance was walking away from Brenda with a mixture of elation and bone-deep disappointment.
Elation because she still loved him. He knew she did.
And disappointment because she was grinding him down with all the rejections. Nothing he did seemed to work. Nothing. Five years of cajoling, apologizing, teasing, and begging. What did he get for his efforts? Nada.
He was passing by the checkout lines, heading toward the crowd outside when he stopped and did a double take. Holy shit! He saw himself staring out from one of the tabloids...with freakin' Pamela Anderson. It looked as if she had her hand on his crotch.
He had no idea if he'd been at the same party that Pamela Anderson had--you'd think he would remember that--or if some enterprising editor had done a cut and paste job. All he knew was that he'd never been with the goddess of silicone, in any way. But if Brenda saw this picture, it would be five years ago, all over again.
So, he did what any half-brained guy would do. He bought every issue of the tabloid before he left the store.
*****
Desperate men do desperate things...
"I'm desperate," Lance Caslow said later that night, and almost fell off his chair at the Loosey Goosey Bar, somewhere in California...he wasn't exactly sure where.
"Nah. Yer jist drunk, thass what you are," his best friend and fellow NASCAR driver Easy Eddie Morgan slurred out, even as he tried to wink, but just grimaced at a buxom blonde waitress who should own stock in a push-up bra company.
"We're both drunk," Lance concluded. "Knee-walking, shit-faced, we-oughta-go-home blitzed. Can you remember why?"
"I think we mighta won the Brickhouse, or placed, or somethin'. No, no, no. That was last summer. We were doin' a commercial. In L.A."
"Oh, that's right."
"So, why are ya desperate, good buddy?"
"I'm so in love with my ex-wife it hurts, right here." He pressed a forefinger to his abdomen, though he'd been aiming at his heart. "But she won't take me back."
Easy shrugged. "Ex-wives are a dime a dozen. Find another one." Easy should know, he had three of them and was paying alimony out the kazoo.
Lance shook his head. "I don't want anyone else and haven't for a long, long time. Brenda and I go way back, to elementary school. I thought we would be together forever." He didn't even care how corny that sounded.
"And?"
He sighed. "I screwed up. Bigtime."
"Didja say yer sorry?"
He nodded.
"Didja buy her jewelry to make up fer it?"
"Yes. She threw the damn necklace in my face."
"Flowers?"
"A pigload. She gave them to the old folks home."
"Well, that leaves only one thing. Beg."
"I tried that, too."
Easy looped an arm over his shoulder. "I hate ta break it to ya but she might not love ya anymore."
Lance shook his head slowly, and then he shook it harder from side to side till a headache began to jackhammer right behind his eyes. "She loves me, all right. She just doesn't trust me any farther than she can throw me."
"Ya need a plan. Ya need outside help."
"Where's a matchmaker when you need one? Ha, ha, ha!"
"Yeah, hire yerself a yenta. Ha, ha, ha!" Easy sometimes lapsed into his Jewish heritage; so, he knew words like that.
A tiny little niggling idea burrowed into his pathetic brain. A matchmaker? "Hmmmm."
"What?"
"Remember that wedding I went to?"
"The one with the crazy ex-Amish Navy SEAL?"
"That would be the one. Anyhow, there was this crazy old Cajun lady there. She was spoutin' stuff 'bout St. Jude and hope chests and thunderbolts of love."
"Man, yer really drunk," Easy slurred out.
"I'm goin' to Loo-zee-anna," he announced. "Southern Loo-zee-anna. Bayou Black, to be precise."
"Yer big plan is to get a matchmaker?"
"Yep! Her name is Tante Lulu.
*****
Shopping...the cure for every girl's woes...
"Are you sure you don't want to sit on Santa's lap?"
"Moooooommmmm!" Brenda's daughter Patti said, gazing at her with horror. Patti--seven, going on seventeen--quickly glanced around her at the mall to see if anyone had heard her mother's embarrassing remark. "That is sooooo uncool!"
"Well, excuse me, for not being cool." Brenda squeezed her daughter's thin shoulders to show she wasn't offended. "In the past...last year, for heaven's sake...you gave Santa your Christmas wish list."
"I was a child then," Patti said. "Besides, Santa already knows what I want for Christmas." She gave Brenda a pointed look to let her know who the Santa in question was.
Brenda wasn't even going to react to that wish remark, and spoil their post-Thanksgiving trip to the massive Woodbridge Mall, a virtual city of stores, restaurants, and entertainment. Patti's wish was the same every year anyhow. "Dear Santa: Please let Mommy and Daddy make up so we can be a family again."
Brenda hated it, that Patti no longer believed in Santa Claus, that she was growing up so fast, and that she still hoped for a reconciliation between her and Lance. With each year, Patti looked more like her Daddy. Dark blonde hair, perfect features, a beauty in the making. She shared Lance's sense of style, too. The outfit she'd chosen for the day: a twirly red and green plaid skirt, a red turtle neck, a short pink fake fur jacket, white knee-highs, black patent leather shoes and a sparkly hair clip. She'd inherited her father's gift of charm, as well, as indicated by her next observation.
"You know, Mom, you are so beautiful. It's no wonder Daddy loves you so much."
"Give me a break!"
"Really, he does love you. He tells everyone."
"Oh, yeah?"
"Yep, he told me again before he went...uh, I mean...uh, before he went on his trip."
Brenda recognized a slip of the tongue when she heard it, especially from her too-transparent daughter. "What trip?"
"I don't know." Patti's cute little pixie face bloomed pink.
"Patti?"
"It's a secret trip, and that's all I can say. Okay?"
"A secret trip? He better not be buying you another outrageously expensive Christmas gift." Last year he'd given her an electric mini-sports car that exactly matched the vehicle he'd used when he won the Daytona the year before. It probably cost ten thousand dollars.
"The trip has nothing to do with me. And that's all I'm gonna say. You wanna get a soft pretzel and a drink, or...?" Patti's eyes twinkled with mischief.
"Or what?"
"Or we could go into Victoria's Secret and buy you one of those see-through nighties. Betcha Dad would like that."
Yep, her daughter was growing up way too fast.
*****
CHAPTER TWO
Even desperate men draw the line at...
Lance was cruising along U.S. 90 out of Houma, Louisiana. He passed a few sugar plantations on the way, some decrepit shacks and houseboats, and modest bayou-side homes. All of them still showed damage from Hurricane Katrina.
He was heading for a cottage on Bayou Black that he had pinpointed on his GPS system. It was the home of Louise Rivard, better known as Tante Lulu, matchmaker extraordinaire.
This is the dumbest thing I've ever done, and I've done some really dumb things.
Like losing Brenda? a voice in his head said.
Yep, the dumbest.
The weather was a balmy seventy degrees...balmy, considering that this was December. But then, this was the Southland. Despite the weather, he wasn't about to put the top down on his Lexus convertible, the least flashy of his fifteen automobiles. Even wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap, he'd been recognized occasionally when he stopped for gas on the three hundred mile trip from his home in Texas. Publicity was the last thing he needed on this desperate mission.
"This must be it," he murmured, pulling into the driveway of a small cottage covered with logs accented by white-washed chinking. A wide porch, with several wooden rockers, faced a stretch of stream...well, a bayou, actually. That's what they called alligator-infested creeks here in Louisiana.
"Son of a bitch!" he said aloud. There was a real live gator sunning itself right in the old lady's yard.
Swamps and thick jungle-like vegetation ruled in this region, but the cottage had neatly trimmed grass and colorful flower beds in cleared areas on all four sides. He smiled when he recognized the plastic and plaster statues placed in various spots among the flowers. St. Jude. Tante Lulu's favorite saint, he recalled. In fact, last time he'd seen her at a wedding in Central Pennsylvania a few months back, she'd shoved a miniature statue into his hand and told him, "It's fer hopeless cases...like yours."
He gave the gator another wary look and shivered with distaste. Lance had a pistol under his front seat that he kept for security reasons. Should I shoot the bugger? Nah! I'll just run like hell if the beast comes after me.
No sooner did he step out of his car...carefully, with an eye on the walking pocketbook...than Tante Lulu stepped out onto her porch. "Welcome, cher, welcome! Come make yerself at home, you. I gots gumbo on the simmer and a strong cup of Cajun coffee hot enough ta burn yer tongue."
"Uh...what about that alligator over there." At the moment said gator was ambling towards them.
"Oh, thass jist Useless."
"He might be useless, but he has sharp teeth."
"Useless is his name, honey. He usta be Remy's pet gator, but then Remy moved off his houseboat and Useless moved down the bayou to live by me. He likes ta eat cheese doodles. Ya gots any cheese doodles in yer car?"
"No, I'm fresh out of cheese doodles." An alligator named Useless who eats snack food. Okaaay.
"Remy usta give him moon pies, but he'd get on such a sugar high, he even scared the other gators. And he was gettin' fat. So, we changed ta cheese doodles."
This is real interesting, but...
"This is real interestin', Lance, but we gots work ta do. Reach down here, boy, and gimme some sugar."
Lance was six foot tall. Tante Lulu was about five foot zero. Bending was in fact a necessity. When he did lean down, and she gave him a warm hug, followed by a kiss on both cheeks, he felt an odd sort of warmth rush through him. He suddenly knew he'd done the right thing coming to the old lady for help.
"Did you feel that?" he asked.
"Feel what, honey?"
"That shot of...I don't know...electricity, heat, something?"
She patted him on the hand. "Thass jist St. Jude workin' through me. And doan be givin' me that disbelievin' look. Ya want help, ya gotta believe."
They entered the cottage, whose low ceiling barely missed hitting the top of Lance's head. The living room was cozy, with a Christmas tree sitting in one corner with its lights blinking, fake holly draped over a fireplace mantle, kitchy Santas and elves, mixed in with St. Jude statues, on every table surface, and Christmas music coming out of an old fashioned console type record player...Cajun Christmas music, a mixture of French and English. The walls were adorned with a couple dozen framed photographs. Her nephews, he supposed...Luc, Remy, René and Tee-John, her niece Charmaine, and their various spouses and children. There were lots of them. He'd met most of them at Caleb Peachy's wedding in October; Caleb was a member of the Jinx treasure hunting team, along with Brenda.
"Come, you, sit yer purty self down," she said, leading him into her kitchen, which was a step back in time...to the 1940s, he would guess. Enamel table, metal chairs with red naugahyde cushioned seats, an old fashioned, wide porcelain sink under a window with red and white checkered curtains. Dried spices hung from the ceiling, giving the room a wonderful aroma, accented by the delicious odors coming from a pot cooking on the stove. It was a pleasant room. Martha Stewart, despite her high tech kitchens, would love this place.
The kitchen, in fact the whole house, held ambiance. Lance laughed to himself, that he would even know such a word. Hell, it's what his decorator had said when designing his home in Houston, and it was cold as steel compared to this. Brenda would love this.
That thought brought him to the point of this visit. But before he could speak, Tante Lulu placed a bowl of gumbo, several slices of warm bread and butter, and a mug of coffee in front of him, with the words, "Bon appetite!" Then said, out of the blue, "Does you know Richard Simmons?"
"Ummm, this is good," he said, taking his first bite of the thick, Cajun, stew-like dish. "Do you mean Richard Simmons, the exercise nut?"
Tante Lulu inhaled sharply and slapped him on the shoulder with a dish towel. "Shame on you. Richard ain't a nut. He's a hunk. If I was younger, I'd go after him, guaranteed."
"Okaaaay." Someone's nuts around, but I don't know if its me, Richard Simmons or this Cajun fruitcake here. But he was raised to be polite. "You're not that old."
Tante Lulu laughed. "Sweetie, I'm so old I coulda been a waitress at the Last Supper. Not that I don't still have some snap in my garters."
No way was he going to step in that mine field. "This is really good." He hadn't realized he was so hungry, and didn't even protest when Tante Lulu refilled his bowl without asking.
"You sure are good lookin', boy. Purtier than a speckled pup. Betcha the wimmen chase ya lak crazy. Betcha think yer hotter 'n pig's butt in a pepper patch."
"I do not think I'm hotter than...what you said."
"Well, dontcha be havin' a hissy fit. There ain't that many men as hot as Richard."
"Richard Petty?"
"No, aintcha been listenin'? Richard Simmons. Mebbe ya know someone who knows him and ya kin invite Richard to the Lance Caslow and the Cajun Bad Boys show?"
Lance sputtered into his coffee. "Huh?"
She narrowed her eyes at him. "I'm a traiteur...a healer...but that doan mean I have special afro-diss-aks in my pocket. Ya weren't thinkin' I had a magic bullet here for ya, were ya? Iffen thass the case, ya might as well skedaddle on home. Even juju tea takes a while ta work."
"They make tea from Jujyfruits candy?"
"Boy, yer thicker 'n a bayou stump. But dontcha be worryin' none. We's fixin' ta get yer wife back fer ya, lickedy split. Brenda won't even know the thunderbolt hit her."
"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Let's backtrack about a NASCAR mile here, sweetheart."
"Oooh, thass a good touch, that sweetheart thang. Betcha the wimmen swoon over that."
Yeah, but not Brenda. "What show?"
"I already tol' ya. The Cajun Bad Boys."
"I'm not Cajun."
She waved a hand dismissively. "We'll make ya an honorary Cajun."
"We who?"
Within seconds, he found out who as Tante Lulu's four nephews, and the niece Charmaine, showed up in ten and fifteen minute intervals.
"Hey, Lance." It was John LeDeux greeting him as he strolled in carrying a mondo size bag of cheese doodles, the size you buy in surplus warehouses. John, better known as Tee-John to his family, had been a member of the Jinx treasure hunting crew but was now a cop in New Orleans. "Guess my aunt roped you in, too." He grinned as if Lance was the sucker of the month, which he probably was.
"Didja bring Lance's hope chest?"
"Oh, yeah!" He pointed to a pine box out on the porch.
"A...a hope chest? For me?"
"Oui. I gives 'em ta all the mens afore I fixes up their love life. Ya want the `L & B' embroidery on the pillow cases ta be in green or blue?"
"Wait till you see the pot holders she made you out of NASCAR flags," John told him, not even trying to suppress a chuckle. "And the bride quilt with checkered flags alternating with hearts. And a monogrammed toilet paper holder. And the St. Jude flag to put on your race car."
Now that last he wouldn't mind. A racer needed all the help he could get.
"Doan pay no nevermind ta Tee-John. He'll be gettin' his hope chest sometime soon."
"No, no, no!" John was turning a lovely shade of gray which gave Lance immense pleasure.
"How's the police work going?" he asked.
John shrugged. "Beats pickin' cotton, or..." He cast his aunt a mischievous grin, "...or strippin'."
The old lady smacked her nephew, whom she clearly adored, on his arm. "Doan mind Tee-John," she told Lance. "This one, bless his heart, thinks the sun comes up ta hear him crow."
"Doesn't it?" the young man asked with mock innocence.
The niece Charmaine came next, carrying outdoor Christmas decorations which they were all apparently going to help the old lady put up. Charmaine looked like a Christmas ornament herself, with huge teased black hair, earrings that dangled a bunch of colored bells, red spandex pants, white high heeled cowboy boots, a green silk, long-sleeved t-shirt with the words "Don't Tangle With me", and in smaller print "Charmaine's Beauty Spa." She was what his friend Easy would call a Hootchie Mama and mean it as a compliment. His daughter Patti, a real girly girl, would love Charmaine.
Luc and Remy LeDeux came next, also carting Christmas decorations and a bushel of okra. What anyone would do with a bushel of okra, he had no idea. Luc was the oldest of the LeDeux brothers, a lawyer. Remy, badly scarred in Desert Storm, was a pilot.
After they shook hands with him and asked a few questions about his latest race--people in the South loved NASCAR--they all sat down at the table. Tante Lulu placed mugs of coffee in front of all of them, along with a platter of fresh-baked beignets, a Louisiana delicacy.
Lance was feeling a mite embarrassed...okay, a lot embarrassed. When he'd called Tante Lulu to ask for her help, he didn't know she would be calling in the troops to share his secret shame. Lance Caslow, celebrity playboy, couldn't get his wife back on his own.
"Tell us what the problem is, Lance, and we'll see what we can do to help," Charmaine advised. "And don't be blushin'. We've all been in the same boat."
I doubt that. Taking a deep breath, he began. "I have loved Brenda forever. We grew up together. We married right after high school. We have a little girl together. I thought we would be together always."
"I hear a great big but in there," Remy said.
"I screwed up."
Charmaine and Tante Lulu both glowered at him.
"I didn't cheat on her," he protested.
The two women arched their eyebrows.
"I didn't cheat on her while we were together."
The men laughed.
"Listen, my friend, I'm a lawyer," Luc said, "but you don't need to be a lawyer to know that terminology doesn't give you the wiggle room you think it does."
"Yeah, I know. That's what Brenda said. I'm about ready to give up. This is my last shot. Really, it feels hopeless."
"What a load of hooey!" Tante Lulu said. "But ya came ta the right place fer hopeless cases." She squeezed his shoulder and passed him another beignet. "When didja first start havin' troubles and when did ya get a divorce?" Tante Lulu wanted to know.
"There was trouble almost from the get-go...or once I started winning some races. The groupies, the parties, the drinking. But as long as Brenda was with me, we were okay. She was a NASCAR mechanic for my team. But then we had Patti...our little girl is seven now...and Brenda couldn't go on the road as much. I guess I let all the attention go to my head. I didn't actually do anything, but--"
"Sonny, let's get one thing straight. A man, he can be slicker 'n deer guts on a doorknob, but excuses doan make the gumbo boil. Cheatin' is cheatin', whether it be lookin', or kissin', or rentin' a room at the Hidey Hole Hotel. As Doctor Phil would say, ya gotta own the problem."
Lance's jaw dropped at Tante Lulu's little sermon. The rest of them just grinned, probably having heard that sermon a few dozen times.
"I admit, I made mistakes. Big mistakes. Number one, I let myself be photographed with hot women in compromising positions. Number two, I didn't go home immediately and beg Brenda to forgive me. Instead, I said she was overly jealous. Number three, when we were separated, I got drunk and had a one-night stand with a groupie who sold the story to the National Enquirer. Number four, I let my pride rule way too long. Now Brenda won't even talk to me."
"Tsk, tsk, tsk!" Tante Lulu said.
"Here I thought you were gonna say that yer problem was yer needle dick," John teased.
"Tee-John LeDeux! You got a mouth like a Bourbon Street pimp. I kin still whomp yer fanny," Tante Lulu scolded. "And it ain't polite to make fun of a man's doo-dad."
John just winked at his aunt.
"That's okay. Brenda told that needle dick story about my...uh, doo-dad...for a long time, to get back at me," Lance explained.
"Did it work?" Remy asked.
"Hell, yes. Try explaining to people that you don't have a needle dick without dropping your drawers."
"Men and the size of their you-know-whats!" Charmaine said to Tante Lulu. "If they'd stop worrying about size and stop thinking with their zippers, women would be all over them like white gravy on a warm biscuit."
"The big question is: does Brenda still love you?" The old lady might act a bit ditzy, but she knew how to get at the heart of things.
"Yes," he said without hesitation. "She just doesn't like me very much."
Two hours later--hope chest stowed in his back seat, St. Jude statue in his pocket, and a Tupperware container of gumbo in the trunk--Lance left, shaking his head with dismay. He'd just agreed to the most outlandish plan to get Brenda back.
The NASCAR Bad Boy had officially become a Cajun Bad Boy.
*****
And then he threw out the hook...
Brenda studied the card which had come in the mail today, addressed to Brenda and Patti Caslow. It was a formal invitation on heavy cream parchment with a holly border.
You are cordially invited
to
A CAJUN CHRISTMAS DINNER-REVUE
at
The Southern Louisiana Civic Center
honoring
NASCAR DRIVER LANCE CASLOW
Entertainment by the Cajun Bad Boys
Proceeds to benefit Our Lady of the Bayou Homeless Shelter
RSVP: Louise Rivard, cajunhottie@bb.com
"Louise Rivard," she murmured. "That's Tante Lulu. What would Lance have to do with Tante Lulu?"
Her ex-husband was involved in lots of charity events, lending his name to good causes. She was about to pitch this one in the circular file when Patti came into the room. She was all dolled up for a slumber party to be held at her friend Carolyn's tonight.
Good Lord! Are those fishnet stockings she has on under that very short skirt? No, just tights made to look like fishnet. Whew! Patti had long blond hair, the curls tamed into a series of beaded braids framing her face. Dangly Santa earrings hung from her pierced ears. She had rings on almost all her fingers. On top she wore a black glittery shirt with sequined letters saying, "NASCAR Babe," an ill-thought-out gift for a seven-year-old girl from her Daddy. She had her own unique style, you had to give her that.
"Is that the invitation? Yippee!" Patti squealed, taking the card out of Brenda's hand and dancing around their small kitchen. "Can we go, Mommy? Please. This is a special honor for Daddy, and we hardly ever go to things for Daddy. Please, please, please."
"Oh, I don't know, honey. It's in Louisiana, and--"
"Dad would send us a plane ticket."
"And it's a school night."
Patti put both hands on her tiny hips. "It's the Saturday before Christmas, Mom. Does Christmas vacation ring a bell?"
"Don't be smart with me, young lady."
"Sooorrry." The kid had tears in her eyes, whether for fear that her mother would say no, or the harsh tone, she wasn't sure. "But I wanna be there for Dad. Maybe I could go myself." Her bottom lip quivered, like it always did when she was being brave, but scared silly.
"I am not putting you on a plane by yourself."
Patti looked both relieved and upset.
"How come you know so much about this event? Has your Dad been prompting you to beg me to go?"
"Actually, no. Dad never mentioned it. Probably because you always say no anyhow, no matter what it is, if it involves him."
Am I really that unbending?
"It was Tante Lulu who tol' me 'bout it."
"Huh? Since when do you know Tante Lulu?"
"I met her at the wedding, Mom. Geesh! Dontcha remember?"
"Of course I remember, but I'm surprised that you do." On the other hand, the Cajun lady would be hard to forget.
"She called here one day when you were working down at the Jinx office."
"And you forgot to tell me?"
"I figured you'd say no anyhow. Like you always do."
"That is not true."
"They were scheduling the event and wanted to pick a time when I would be able to attend. See, it's important that I go."
"I would only have a week to diet myself into my Christmas dress," she mused aloud.
"You could buy a new one, in a bigger size."
"Bite your tongue, girl. Wonder if I should try the grapefruit or the sauerkraut diet this time."
It was an indication of how badly Patti wanted to attend that she didn't even groan over the diet fare. "Can I go?" she asked in a small voice.
"Well, if you go, I go."
Brenda was pretty sure she saw a crafty gleam of satisfaction in her daughter's eyes. Had she just been manipulated, Lance Caslow style?
*****
CHAPTER
THREE
Can NASCAR drivers shimmy?...
Lance was more nervous than he ever was at the Daytona when he waited for the loudspeaker to announce, "Gentlemen, start your engines." The jitters never went away. But this was far worse.
"I am not taking my shirt off," he told the LeDeux men backstage as they prepared for the upcoming Cajun Bad Boys show. "NASCAR drivers do not wear jackets without their shirts on. And I for sure am not wearing those tight stripper pants."
"What, you think cops go around bare-chested as they nab bad guys?" John LeDeux wore the bottom half of a police uniform, cop hat on his head at a jaunty angle, and carrying a billy club. Lance was one hundred per cent heterosexual, but he had to admit the rogue did look hot.
"And me, do you really think I go into court wearing a suit with no shirt underneath?" Luc LeDeux just grinned at him, looking rakishly handsome in a dark blue pin-striped Boss suit which exposed a black, hairy chest.
René, an environmentalist/teacher, wore only a vest and his frottoir, a washboard. He was a part-time musician, playing with the Swamp Rats, which was on stage right now. René was the instigator of these shows. He's the one who encouraged them to do outrageous things, things he didn't want to think about.
"Hey, at least they aren't tryin' ta get ya to dance around a fireman's pole," Remy added. He was wearing a bombers jacket, minus shirt. "That's what they did to me."
"I thought they had you ride a horse down the main street where Charmaine's beauty salon was located," he said.
"They did, but they brought out the fireman's pole for an earlier Cajun Bad Boys event. Was it when Sylvie wouldn't talk ta you, Luc?"
"Yep. Ya always was the shy one."
The two brothers grinned at each other, neither of them particularly shy.
"The best thing is that after a performance our women are all turned on," Remy told Lance. "Ain't that right, Luc? There'll be hot times on the bayou tonight."
"Oh, that is just great. Why dontcha brag when there are single fellas like me around?" This was John speaking.
"Hah! Like you'd have any trouble lining up a bootie call!" Remy said.
These guys were nuts, and not just them. They'd enlisted the help of a New Orleans Saints football player in helmet, carrying a football, wearing tight, white scrimmage pants, sans underwear and jersey. Then there was The Swamp Cowboy...Charmaine's scowling husband, Rusty, who was no more happy to be in this nutcase show than he was. There was also a carpenter with tool belt. And a Richard Simmons lookalike; that was Lance's contribution, to please Tante Lulu. The real Richard told Lance's agent that he would have come, but he had a prior engagement with a half-ton lady in crisis.
Anyhow, this was the LeDeux's crazy, half-assed idea of the Village People. It was a show they put on periodically, which was very popular if the crowd outside, five hundred people strong, paying a hundred dollars a pop, was any indication.
The LeDeux women were no better, dressed in bright colored, thigh-high spandex dresses and stiletto heels, even Tante Lulu.
"I'm going for a walk," he said.
"Don't go too far. We'll be on in a half hour...or forty five minutes," John told him.
"You sure yer comin' back?" Luc inquired.
Good question. He sure didn't feel like it, but then he decided he had to. This was his last shot, and he had to give it his all. "I'll be here," he promised.
Unfortunately, John got the last shot in when he asked him,
"Hey, Lance, I sure hope you know how to shimmy."
*****
Sucking it in, physically and mentally...
Brenda stood near the entrance of the Cajun Christmas event, sipping at her second glass of white wine.
She could barely breathe, but she wasn't sure if it was because she'd eaten so much food after practically starving herself this past week, or if she was afraid to relax for fear of succumbing to Lance's formidable charms. Not that she'd seen the charmer today. Nope, she was avoiding him like a Krispy Kreme donut.
But really, she was having a good time. The company was great. All of the LeDeux family had shown up. In fact, there were at least five hundred people here, who had paid one hundred dollars for the charitable cause, just to honor Lance. And to see the LeDeuxs perform, an event not to be missed here on the bayou, she'd been told.
And the food...oh, my goodness, the food! On the buffet tables arrayed around the huge banquet room there were Gumbo Ya Ya, red beans and rice, Tipsy Chicken, Jambalaya, gator stew, Crawfish Etouffée, Redfish Court Bouillon, blackened catfish fingers and Limping Susan, an okra and rice dish, not to mention beaten biscuits dripping with butter. And that was just the entrees. For dessert there was sinfully sweet pralines, bread pudding with whiskey sauce, King Cake and Tante Lulu's famous Peachy Praline Cobbler Cake. Dieters heaven, to be sure.
"Sugar, you look hot," Charmaine said, coming up to her.
"Thanks," Brenda said. And she did look hot, as well she should after having spent three hundred dollars on this little red silk slip dress that left her black hose encased legs exposed up to mid-thigh, and her shoulders and chest risking exposure if not for the two thin rhinestone straps. On her feet were red high heels, also with rhinestone straps. Red shoes! A first for Brenda. Her blonde curls had been tamed and upswept, except for a few escaping tendrils. She wore no jewelry except for cheap rhinestone chandelier earrings and the small diamond heart on a gold chain that Lance had given her for a wedding gift eons ago. It was worth practically nothing compared to the more expensive jewelry he'd gifted her over the years, mostly due to guilt. She'd been determined to shine here tonight at her first Lance event in years. "I'm afraid to breathe, or my stomach will pop out."
"I know what you mean." Charmaine laughed. "We've been wearing these spandex dresses for the past five years, and the fabric has to stretch just a liiiiitle bit more over my hips and butt these days."
Brenda couldn't see where, even with Charmaine being about five months pregnant. All the LeDeux women were going to perform some kind of Motown song and dance number soon, and they were dressed in identical spandex dresses and high heels of different colors. Charmaine filled hers very nicely, thank you very much. She was built like a tall slim beauty queen, which she had been at one time. Miss Louisiana.
Tante Lulu walked up to them then. And, Lordy, Lordy, she was wearing a spandex dress, too. Neon pink with matching pink high heels, though not as high as Charmaine's. And her short curly hair was dyed pink today, too. She looked like a ball of cotton candy. "Didja finish that wine already, Brenda. Lemme go get ya another glass."
"No, no, no," she said, setting her empty wine glass on a nearby empty table. "I'm not much of a drinker, and I'm already feeling a little woozy. I want to be alert for your program."
"Ooooh, I have a good idea," Charmaine cooed. "What we all need is an oyster shooter...except mine will have to be minus the booze."
"Charmaine, yer a genius," Tante Lulu concurred. A remarkable statement. "Does ya like oysters, Brenda?"
"Yes, but I've had enough to eat."
"Sweetie, oyster shooters have nothing to do with food."
Leading her to the bar, the two Cajun women asked the bartenders to line up some Oyster shooters. There were Tabasco covered raw oysters in one shot glass and one hundred proof bourbon in the next.
Charmaine leaned her head back, tossed back the oyster, immediately followed by the booze. "Whoo-ee, that's good."
Tante Lulu did the same. "Thass what I'm talkin' about."
They both turned to her. Brenda was game. She followed suit, and felt the potent drink all the way to her toes. The oyster was spicy. The bourbon was wicked.
Charmaine looked at her, then she and Tante Lulu looked at each other, and grinned.
The two ladies downed another shot and looked at Brenda.
"Oh, I don't think--"
"Thass yer trouble, girlie. Ya think too much." Tante Lulu shoved the two glasses into her hand.
What could she do, except to drink them down.
"How come my lips are numb?" she slurred out then.
"Thass the way it's 'sposed ta be, honey."
Charmaine and Tante Lulu sashayed away then, butts swaying from side to side, leaving Brenda to wonder if she'd just been conned.
*****
Honey, will you blow me...dry?
Lance was still walking off his nervousness.
He stopped in a side room in the back hall where a babysitter was watching over some of the kids, including Patti who was playing Barbie dolls with Luc and Remy's little girls. When she saw him, she jumped up and ran over, leaping into his arms. He gave her a hug, twirling her around. "How's it goin', sweetcakes? Havin' fun?"
She leaned her head back. Blonde curls, just like her mother's, were bouncing. "How are you, Daddy?"
"Nervous."
Giving him another hug, she said, "Don't be. Tante Lulu showed me how to pray to St. Jude. And he whispered in my ear this morning that everything is gonna be all right."
"St. Jude, huh?" Now I'm turning my daughter into a fruitcake.
Hey, I resent that, he thought he heard a voice in his head say. St. Jude? That is just great. Now, I'm joining the fruitcake club.
"Have you seen Mom?"
"Nope." He'd been avoiding that confrontation. He didn't want to risk having their usual argument before he even made his grand performance.
"She looks sooooo hot." Patti rolled her eyes meaningfully. "She even bought a new dress. Make sure you tell her how nice it looks, but whatever you do, don't mention diets, fat, weight or butts."
"Bu...butts?" he sputtered.
"Yeah, Mom is really sensitive about the size of her butt these days."
Great! Not only am I taking advice from a woman older than God, but now I'm getting advice from little squirts, too.
That blasted voice in his head said, Whatever works.
"See you later, honey."
When he stepped out into the hall, he almost ran into Tante Lulu who was wobbling along on pink high heels which matched her pink stretchy dress. Her hair was dyed pink tonight, too. She looked like an ad for Pepto Bismol.
"Gotta hurry," the old lady told him. "Us girls has gotta decide which Diana Ross songs ta sing. Then mebbe we'll do `Redneck Woman'. Thass by Gretchen Wilson. Hope I remembers the words."
"Good luck," he said.
Tante Lulu was already on her way, but she turned and told him, "No, cher, good luck to you, but not to worry. Everythin's gonna be okay."
"Is St. Jude talking to you, too?"
"St. Jude allus talks to me. No, I meant that I jist got Brenda ta drink two glasses of wine, and now she's startin' on Oyster Shooters."
"You're getting her drunk? You think her being drunk will help me win her over?" That's all I need. Brenda too plastered to notice me making a fool out of myself.
"Not drunk. Jist primin' the pump."
Priming the pump! Good Lord! That's something one of my pit crew would say.
He must have looked dubious because she continued, "You know what they say. `Wine makes good women wenches.' Well, here in the south we say, `Oyster Shooters make wild women wilder'."
"Brenda...a wild wench?" he muttered to Tante Lulu's back. "I am in deep shit." He went into a side corridor, used by employees, and leaned against the wall, putting both hands to his face. Of course, it was just his luck that Brenda walked out of the ladies room just then. Rather, she staggered out of the ladies room.
"I had ta pee, and the other line was too long," she explained, as if he needed an explanation for her coming out of an employees' bathroom. "My tongue is so thick. Look at it. Does it look thick ta you."
To his amazement, Brenda came right up to him--within touching distance, for the love of Dale Earnhardt!--and stuck her tongue out real far. He could practically see her tonsils.
"Looks fine to me," he said, but what he really wanted to say was, "I don't know, darling, maybe you better stick it in my mouth so I can make sure."
"Whatja doin' out here? Shouldn't the guest of honor be...guest of honoring?" She giggled at her own lame joke.
"I came down this corridor 'cause I'm a little nervous.
She cocked her head to the side...and almost fell over. "You never get nervous in public. Never, ever, never."
"I am now."
It was then he took in her outfit. "Holy crap, Brendie! You are one freakin' hottie tonight. Wow!" She was wearing this short, red, hardly-there dress, which couldn't possibly have a bra under it. Her long legs were covered with sheer black stockings. Man, he loved her legs. He especially loved her legs in black stockings. She wore red stiletto heels to match her dress, thus raising her up to his height, which was kind of nice. And her lips were covered with red, screw-me-quick lip gloss.
"Wow! back at you," she said before he could test the screw-me-quick lip gloss.
"You think I look good?" Compliments from Brenda were a rarity. In fact, they'd been non-existent for the past five years.
"You always look good."
She stood swaying before him.
He stood biting his bottom lip with nervousness.
"Are you all right?" they both said at the same time.
Deciding that he didn't want to risk some employee--or worse yet a member of the press sneaking in through the kitchen--finding Brenda in this condition, he steered her toward what turned out to be an employees lounge. Once inside, he locked the door, and hoped there would be a vending machine here...with black coffee. There wasn't.
But Brenda solved her own problem. She laid down on the chaise, then stretched her arms over her head.
Which caused her short dress to become even shorter.
Which caused the half-hard-on he always had around her to go full tilt boogie.
He now knew that she wore only panty hose, no panties.
"Why don't you stay there, honey, and I'll go get you some coffee."
"Doan want no coffee."
"What do you want?"
"You."
Oh. My. God. The answer to all my dreams, and she has to be drunk. This is not funny, St. Jude. Not funny at all.
I think it is, that blasted voice in his head said. We call it celestial humor.
"You don't mean that, Brendie. You've been drinking?" That was a dumb thing to say. As if she didn't already know she'd been drinking.
"No, I've been eating," she disagreed. "Oysters. Oyster Shooters."
"Don't they have straight bourbon in them?"
"Whass yer point? Oysters are an affer...apro...aphro-dis-iac, ya know? Whoo-boy, are they ever! I feel like I've swallowed a bucketload of Viagra."
Information I do not need in my condition. Maybe later, but not now. Not now when I have to go on a stage pretty damn soon and make a fool out of myself. She scooted herself over toward the wall, making a little bit of room on the chaise. She crooked her finger at him and said, "Wanna make out?"
He smiled.
"I hate it when you do that?" She licked her lips, a slow sexy procedure that made him wonder, if only for a blip of a second, if it would really be morally wrong to make love to Brenda when she was crocked. "My lips are numb. Mebbe...maybe there was sugarcane, I mean, Novocain in those drinks."
"You hate it when I do what, honey?"
"Smile. It makes me get butterflies here." She placed both hands over her tummy.
Lance noticed something then. A small diamond heart on a chain. He'd given it to Brenda on their wedding night. Was her wearing it a sign of something important...a change in her attitude toward him? Was the liquor just bringing out in the open her real feelings? Had she finally, finally, forgiven him? Please, God, he prayed. Please, St. Jude.
I'm here, I'm here, the voice in his head said.
Was it God or St. Jude or his subconscious? Hell, maybe it was bleepin' Santa Claus. Whatever!
His better judgment told him to be a good boy, that if he lay down with Brenda, she would hate him later.
But his not-so-good judgment just laughed.
So, he eased himself down onto the foot or so of space she'd made for him, pulled her into his embrace, then kissed the top of her curly head. An indication of her inebriation was the fact that she didn't shove him off the couch, onto his ass. Instead, she cuddled up against him. It was the closest they'd been in such a long time that Lance's heart constricted in his chest walls.
"I feel like havin' sex," she said all of a sudden.
His you-know-what lurched. He was afraid to breathe.
Lance was stunned.
"But maybe we could just kiss a little," she added.
Not a good idea. Definitely not! he thought even as he lowered his head and pressed his mouth against hers.
They both moaned.
It had been so long, and he and Brenda knew how to kiss each other. They'd been doing it for almost thirty years, since they were both five years old and worried that she might get preggers from kissing. In fact, he and Brenda could bring each other to climax, just by kissing. And if she kept it up...licking the roof of his mouth...that's just what was going to happen.
They were both panting when he forcibly took Brenda's face in both his hands and held her away from him. Her lips were kiss swollen and minus the sexy red lipstick, which he assumed he wore now.
Brenda stared at him, her blue eyes dazed.
He was in a daze, too. Otherwise, he would have been prepared for her leg being thrown over his, and her sitting up, all in one move, which was remarkable considering her condition. But, whoa, she was straddling him now, her dress hiked up to her waist.
He had a hard-on that could drill concrete, and it was planted smack dab inside her cleft, just where she liked to be touched. The fabric of her panty hose, and the fabric of his pants didn't muffle the sensation much at all. She rocked against him, just to let him know she was there...in case he hadn't noticed. Hah!
"My nipples are hard," she said.
"I noticed," he choked out.
"They ache."
He leaned upward.
She leaned downward.
And he took one nipple into his mouth right through her silk dress and began to suckle her with the hard rhythm he knew she liked.
She screamed. She actually screamed. And began to buck against his erection.
He moved to her other breast.
She was one continuous wail as she came and came and came against him.
Then she just folded like a rag doll, placed her face against his racing heart, and fell asleep.
He would have laughed if he weren't so blistering hot and turned on. While she'd been coming apart, he still hadn't got his rocks off.
But then his cell phone rang. He managed to pull it out of his pocket without disturbing Brenda, who was snoring softly now into his ear. "Yeah?" he barked into the phone.
"Where the hell are you?" John asked him. "We're ready to go on."
"Uh...I'm in kind of an awkward situation here."
"You aren't going to bail on us, are you?"
"I'm not sure."
John was swearing a blue streak and someone grabbed the phone from him. Tante Lulu. Great! That's just what he needed.
"Get yet butt out here, boy. No time ta get shy now. There's five hundred people, jist waitin' ta see yer purty face. I'll give ya five minutes, boy."
He was about to explain why he couldn't make it, especially not that fast, but there was a dial tone now.
It took him at least five minutes just to wake Brenda up. It took another five minutes for him to drag her into the bathroom and put wet towels on her face, trying to sober her up.
Once she was half-sober, she looked in the mirror and squealed. "Aaarrgh! What did you do to me?"
"Hey! It's more a case of what you did to me," he replied using the wet paper towel to wipe the lipstick off his face. "Frankly, sweetheart, I think you look real good."
Her hairdo had come undone. She wore no lipstick, but she did sport lips that some collagen junkies would envy. And there were two wet spots in strategic places on her dress.
She tried to punch him and missed.
He laughed.
She hissed. "Help me,' she demanded. "I can't go back out there like this."
So it was that when his cell phone rang again, fifteen minutes later--he'd ignored the last ten calls--he picked it up and heard a crowd chanting, "Caslow, Caslow, Caslow!"
"Do you hear that, you worthless loser?" Charmaine snarled. "That's your fans about to storm the stage."
"I'll be there as soon as I can."
"Why can't you come now?"
Lance had had enough of the badgering. "If you must know, I'm blow drying Brenda's boobs."
There was a stunned silence, followed by laughter.
"And Tante Lulu thought you needed love advice!"
*******
The things a guy will do for love...
Brenda, now stone cold sober, sat sipping black coffee at a table near the stage. Her daughter Patti and the two LeDeux girls sat with her. The other chairs at their table were empty for the moment because the LeDeuxs were about to present their Cajun Bad Boys show.
She was counting the minutes till she could escape back to her hotel room and hide her head under a pillow, pretending she hadn't made the biggest fool of herself. Five years of hiding her feelings down the drain!
Lance was no where to be seen. Good thing, too. She would probably wallop him a good one for taking advantage of her.
No, that wasn't true. She was the one who'd gotten herself drunk and put the moves on him. Her face heated up at the image of the two of them on the chaise. And her climaxing, while he did not. Pathetic, that's what she was.
Let's face it, she told herself, I still love the man. Never stopped. The booze just loosened my will to hide it.
"It's starting, Mommy." Patti reached over and squeezed her hand. Her daughter sensed her inner turmoil. Not for the first time, she saw that her little girl was way too mature for her age.
The canned music that had been playing stopped, and Tante Lulu wobbled out to center stage and pulled the microphone down to meet her height. "First off, lemme thank y'all fer comin' ta support the homeless hereabouts. Since Hurricane Katrina...well, y'all know how bad off some folks are. Ta show our thanks, we gots some top notch entertainment fer ya."
The band began to play softly at first while Tante Lulu went on, "Ever'one knows that love is what makes the world go 'round, and iffen ya doan know that, then yer jist dumbclucks."
A titter of laughter went through the crowd. Tante Lulu was known to most of the people here.
"Well, thass what we're here ta celebrate tonight. Love. And Cajuns, of course."
Tante Lulu stepped back, the lights dimmed, except for a spotlight, the music got louder, recognizable now as that old Supremes song "Stop! In the Name of Love." Dancing out in a snakelike fashion were Charmaine, the beauty salon owner; Sylvie LeDeux, a chemist and Luc's wife; Rachel LeDeux, a Feng Shui decorator and Remy's wife; and Valerie LeDeux, a lawyer and wife to René, an environmentalist, teacher, musician and the biggest rascal in the world. They wore very short spandex dresses in bright colors with matching stiletto heels. They sang. They danced. They laughed and got the audience laughing, too. In fact, the audience stood, clapping and singing along when Tante Lulu joined the girls in a rousing rendition of Aretha Franklin's "R. E. S. P. E. C. T."
"Hey, ladies," a male voice came through the speakers, overriding the tail end of their song. "That respect goes both ways." It sounded like the slow Southern drawl of René, but it could have been any one of the Cajun gentlemen.
"Oh, yeah?" Charmaine said, putting her hands on her hips. The other ladies did the same.
"Do ya'll think ya could do better?" Tante Lulu chirped in.
"Mais, oui, chère."
The ladies stepped to the side and the band launched into a rowdy version of the Village People's "Macho Man," except they were singing different lyrics with the words changed to "Cajun Man." They shimmied out onto the stage, strutting, winking at the crowd, letting out an occasional Rebel yell, singing and dancing in the expert, enthusiastic way only Cajun men could. And their attire! Luc in a day-old beard wore a business suit, sans shirt and looked sexier than if he wore nothing at all. Remy wore a bomber jacket, Aviator sunglasses and also had no shirt on. René, the most outrageous, wore a vest and no shirt, carried a frottir, a Cajun washboard instrument, and unbuttoned jeans which rode low on his hips. His wife, the lawyer, gaped at his attire. Rusty Lanier, Charmaine's husband, clearly unhappy to be there, wore his usual cowboy attire...hat, boots with spurs, tight jeans and no shirt. He looked at Charmaine as if he'd like to kill her; she looked as if she'd like to something entirely different to him. Last came the youngest LeDeux, John or TeeJohn. He was a cop, with unbuttoned shirt, cop hat and billy club. The most uninhibited of the bunch, he was the best dancer, with sexy moves, and he teased the crowd by continually shrugging his shirt off his shoulders like a stripper.
There were others, as well. Some athletes, a fire fighter and the most godawful Richard Simmons impersonator.
After their rendition of "Cajun Man" they sequed into their version of "In the Navy," except of course they made it "In the Bayou." Some of the lyrics were more than suggestive.
At one point, René pulled his resisting wife back onto center stage with him and made her dance with him, a sensual kind of dirty dance where he spooned her from behind. She was embarrassed, at first, but then got into the dance, too. They were good together.
Brenda was really enjoying herself, and so was everyone else. No wonder people paid a hundred dollars for this charity event. The show was worth that and much more.
Her heart constricted, though, to see these Cajun men and their wives together. They clearly loved each other, and had fun together. Mismatched, and still able to keep their marriages together.
Unlike her and Lance.
Which made her wonder...where was he? After all, this event was supposed to be about him.
But then...oh, my goodness!...then she found out exactly where he was.
"VAROOM! VAROOM! VAROOM!" The sound of a loud racing motor was heard before the car moved onto the stage, and everyone moved to the side. It was the car Lance had driven in his first Indy win eight years ago.
The crowd went wild. Standing, clapping, screaming out his name even before Lance flipped the switch which caused the roof to rise. Then he stepped out.
He wore black slacks, low heeled boots, his NASCAR jacket with all the sponsor badges, as well as some of his winning commemoratives. His face was lowered and hidden by dark sunglasses and a NASCAR baseball cap.
But then the music started to play again...the "Macho Man" melody, but now the lyrics were "NASCAR Man." He raised his head, took off his sunglasses and seemed to look right at her. He was unsmiling and serious. Little alarm bells began to go off in her head. She'd heard stories about some of these Cajun Bad Boy events, which she'd disregarded...till now. Something about their whole purpose being some Tante Lulu matchmaking exercise.
"This is for you, babe." He pointed a finger her way, and a spotlight was suddenly on her. "But if I'm gonna make a fool of myself, you are, too." Two security men appeared at her side. Then, mimicking the NASCAR phrase, "Gentlemen, start your engines," he said, "Gentlemen, start her engine."
With great fanfare, she was escorted to the stage, where Lance put an arm around her shoulder and tucked her into his side. She muttered under her breath, "I'm gonna kill you." To which he replied, also in an undertone, "You've been killing me for the past five years. What else is new?"
"Since this whole show tonight is about love, according to Tante Lulu, let me tell you a little story," Lance said into the mike. "I have loved this woman here," he kissed the top of her head, "for thirty years. How is that possible, you ask, since I'm thirty-five? Well, Brendie and I have known each other since we were practically toddlers. I think I fell in love with her the day her diaper drooped and I got my first gander at her very fine behind."
She snorted her opinion, and leaned into the microphone. "That is a lie. He fell in love with me when I let him win our first tricycle race."
He squeezed her shoulders. "That, too."
"Then how come you're divorced?" a male in the back of the room shouted out.
"Good question. You want to take that one, or should I, Brendie?"
"Oh, by all means, you take it, Lancie. This is your show." Then she put her face in her free hand, wondering how to extricate herself from this situation.
"I screwed up. For a blip of a second, I forgot what was important. And I've been trying every since then to make it up. I love her, never stopped." He tipped her chin up so she would look at him and said in a softer voice, "I love you."
"How 'bout you, Brenda. Do you love him?" It was someone behind them on the stage asking that question. Possibly Charmaine.
Brenda was going to refuse to answer that question, but then she noticed
Patti staring up at her with such hope in her eyes. "I never stopped loving
him,
but--" She put up a halting hand before anyone got the wrong impression, "I've
learned that love is not enough."
"Says who?" a woman in audience yelled out.
"Okay, baby, here's the deal," Lance said, turning her with a hand on each shoulder so she faced him. "I can get down on one knee and ask you to marry me, again, or--" He waggled his eyebrows at her.
"Or..." He unzipped his jacket down, then back up again, letting her know he wore nothing under the jacket.
"Or what?"
"Or this." He motioned to the back of the stage, and a chair was brought up. He pushed her down in the chair, gave a signal for the music to begin again, then began to dance for her. A slow, seductive, teasing strip tease that began with the removal of his jacket, then the unbuckling and tossing of his belt, the undoing of the button at his waist and the beginning of an unzip. She saw bare skin behind the zipper.
She stood suddenly, unable to let this go any farther. Lance didn't like to dance, and he didn't do it very well. He hated even more humbling himself publicly. The fact that he was doing it told her something important. She wasn't sure what, but she couldn't let him continue.
Taking the microphone from him, she told the crowd, "Stay tuned, folks. Lance and I have got to go have a little chat." She winked at them meaningfully. "Maybe I have an early Christmas gift for him."
Then she took Lance's hand and said in a low voice, "Zip up, soldier. What I have to say requires total concentration, and I can't do it with your navel blinking at me."
He laughed and followed her willingly.
Behind them, the band began to play and the entertainment continued, without them.
Neither of them said anything. He was probably afraid of what she would say.
She could tell that he was surprised when she took him to the same employees lounge where they had been before.
And he was even more surprised when she locked the door.
*****
The miracle was...
Lance stood with his back against the door, silent. This was it, he knew it was. Brenda was about to ring the death knell on their marriage. There was no hope.
But, whoa, Brenda was reaching behind to unzip her dress. When she turned, her dress slid down to the floor at her feet in a puddle of red silk. She wore only panty hose and red high heels. And the diamond heart pendant he'd given her on their wedding night light years ago. Leaning forward, giving him a spectacular view of her hanging breasts, she removed her panty hose. Then she put the high heels back on again.
"Brendie, what are you doing?" It was amazing he could even ask the question with the erotic buzz ringing in his ears, his heart racing like a souped up engine, and his cylinder about to take off.
"Finishing what you started," she said.
At first he thought she meant that she wanted to finish making love, but then she pulled a hard backed chair to the middle of the floor, sat down and crossed her legs. "Well, big boy, show me what you can do." With a wave of her hand she indicated his half-unzipped pants.
"You know I can't dance worth spit."
"Oh, I think you were doing very well."
"Yeah?" He grinned and listened for the beat of the music they could hear in the distant banquet room. He did in fact dance for her, stripping one item of clothing at a time. When he was as naked as she was, and she'd made various remarks about his anatomy, all complimentary, he was about to pull her to her feet, but instead, he went down on one knee, and said, "Brenda, will you marry me, again?" He didn't want this to be just about sex.
"Of course."
"Whaaaat? What do you mean, of course?"
"Just that, honey."
He pulled her up and put his arms around her. Once he had kissed her till she was as breathless as he was, he asked, "When did you decide this?"
"Probably five years ago, when I left, but I had to give you time--"
"Give me time?" he barked. "More like give you time to punish me."
"Exactly."
"But when did you decide I'd been punished enough?"
"At the A & P. When I discovered that you'd bought all the tabloids."
"You liked that, huh?"
She nodded. "I did."
After they made love...really made love...on the chaise, twice, he cuddled her against him, and asked, "When can we get remarried?"
"I was thinking Christmas Eve. It's the only present Patti has been asking for."
"Sounds good to me."
As they dressed and prepared to go out to tell Patti and the others their news, Lance couldn't help but ponder how hopeless he'd felt these past weeks...till he'd gone to Tante Lulu for help. And he wondered if maybe, just maybe, the old lady did know something the rest of them didn't.
As they left the room, hand in hand, he felt something in his jacket pocket press against his side. He knew exactly what it was. The St. Jude statue Tante Lulu had given him.
He
began to ask Brenda, "Do you believe in--"
"--St. Jude?" she finished for him. "I was just thinking the same thing."
In that instant, they both realized that they'd experienced their own form of Christmas miracle.
"I love you, Brendie."
"I love you, Lance."
And the voice in both their heads said, "Another job done!" Or maybe it was "Ho, ho, ho!"
*****