Bayou Born

chapter 5

Friday morning, Branna glanced at the salad ingredients on the counter. “Potluck dinners,” she mused. “Jello salads and mystery food.”

Every potluck she had ever attended offered at least one mystery—a casserole with unidentifiable ingredients masked by a cap of toasted breadcrumbs. Maybe things in Lakeview were different from Bayou Petite, the little town closest to home. She could hope.

She’d eaten her share of mystery food at church dinners and other community events, but other eating-out opportunities rarely happened. Fast food chains hadn’t invaded Bayou Petite until several years ago. Before, she had to travel twenty minutes to Picayune for a drive-through experience, which held little appeal after growing up with Greta’s mouth-watering cooking. Any white-linen dining event was still a special treat.

With Tab Benoit belting out Jambalaya on the stereo, she sang along and tossed lettuce and spinach with toasted pecans. Next, she sprinkled crumbled gorgonzola cheese on top for color and flavor, which made her mouth water. The salad always tasted better than how it looked in the bowl. She hoped others would enjoy it. First impressions counted, and she wanted to put her best foot forward at the faculty potluck.

She finished off the salad creation by layering thin slices of strawberries—courtesy of Lakeland, Florida, the strawberry capitol—then she covered the large wooden bowl with plastic wrap. At the party, she’d toss the mixture with her special balsamic vinaigrette. The vinegar had been barrel-aged for twenty years. On the rare occasions when Greta allowed her to cook, she used only the best ingredients, especially for guests and strangers.

After placing the salad and bottle of dressing into a sturdy cardboard box, she added wooden “claws” for serving, then nervously hurried to the bedroom for one last check in the cheval mirror, the one her parents brought from Fleur de Lis, and completed a final once-over of her reflection.

Was she appropriately dressed for a faculty potluck? Did designer jeans and a blouse say casual, but smart? Hopefully. She hated the annoying jitterbug in her stomach. This wasn’t an audition. She already had a signed contract for the job. The intention of tonight’s event was fun.

But she hadn’t done fun very well for many months, maybe years. “Organize and execute” were easier. Second nature to her.

“This is a new life,” she said to her reflection.

She wanted a new path, right? That’s what she’d signed up for when she moved to Lakeview. She’d put “respectable” and “tradition” in the back seat and let “adventure” ride shotgun.

Heck, “adventure” needed to drive!

She re-checked the buttons on her sleeveless blouse with the tuxedo ruffle down the front. All buttoned correctly. The ruffle added a feminine touch—just in case she saw him. The mystery man from the storm. After all, that must have been a brilliant first impression she made, diving to the bookstore floor during the storm. He couldn’t possibly not remember her.

The man had gone when she had finally gotten it together.

With a sideways glance in the mirror, she checked her reflection again. A white blouse, dark blue jeans and Jimmy Choo shoes—her one big splurge for the summer. They boosted her confidence. She plucked a tissue from the box on her dresser and wiped a smudge of lipstick from the corner of her mouth.

“It’ll have to do.”

Bzzz. Bzzz. Bzzz

She raced to the kitchen without falling off the four-inch heels. The number wasn’t one she recognized. “Hello?”

“Bran—talk—home—” Camilla’s voice, she recognized it, but the connection was lousy.

“I can’t make out what you’re saying.” Why was she shouting into the phone? That never made things better.

“Talk—See—You—”

Before she could respond, the connection clicked, and her sister was gone. She pushed redial, but a rapid busy signal pulsed in her ear.

She waited a minute and tried again. This time the call went straight to voicemail.

“Call me back,” she said after the beep, then hung up. “Crap,” she muttered, scrolling through her contact list. She found the number she sought, then pushed the call button. “Momma, Camilla just called me,” she said before her mother had a chance to say hello. “The connection was bad. I’m on my way to a work function. If I give you the number, will you try to reach her?”

“Word for word, what did she say, exactly?” her mother asked.

“All I could make out was ‘talk’ and ‘home’ before the line went dead. If you reach her, and there’s no emergency, like she’s dying or something, tell her I’ll call her back at that number tomorrow. If it is an emergency, please call me back.”

“I’m just happy she called you.” The relief in her mother’s voice gave her pause. Momma always worried about each of them, but until now, Branna hadn’t understood how deeply Momma worried over Camilla, who was like a cat with nine lives and always landed on her feet.

Neither she nor Momma had handled Camilla’s current disappearing act very well.

“Love you, Momma. Got to run. Here’s the number.”

She ended the call after her mother’s final good-bye, then turned in a circle scanning the countertops for her car keys. She spied them beside the fruit bowl, grabbed them, and then hoisted the box with her dinner offering into her arms before heading out the door.

The sun blazed in the late afternoon sky. A few wispy white clouds scooted across blue. A breeze was like outdoor air conditioning and had swept away some of the day’s humidity.

Starting the car, she turned the A/C setting to high and blasted it, happy that air cooled her neck as she backed down the driveway.

Following the printed map, she drove the 35 mph speed limit. She’d heard the Westcott’s had a palatial-size home, however, given the size of the faculty, she guessed the gathering might be held outdoors. She glanced again at the directions as she neared the lake and navigated through the oldest part of town. It once had an Indian name, which translated meant “Alligator,” but as the town grew, the name changed to Lakeview in honor of the large body of water. Though, she’d been cautioned about wandering around the shoreline alone. A few gators still made it their home.

The road meandered. Coming around a bend, she spotted the yellow Victorian. No white pickup in sight. Had farmer-guy bought the place? Maybe in a few months, if she got up enough nerve, she'd knock on the door and ask for a tour. Most folks with old houses liked to show them off, though she still didn’t understand why Meredith had chosen to sell.

“Give up Fleur de Lis?” she said, shaking her head. “Not wanting to be the Keeper is one thing, selling the place to strangers, well, that just won’t ever happen.”

Generations of family had lived there. Currently, four generations moved in and out as needed; their home would always remain in the family. Linds, Covingtons, and Dutreys would ensure its succession forever.

Once past the yellow Victorian, she chuckled, remembering farmer-guy’s stained straw hat. Charlie One Horse. Her brother had bought one in Gatlinburg, Tennessee during a family vacation, and then thought he had to have a swagger to go with the hat. She had laughed so hard she’d cried. He always managed to brighten her mood. He was one man she would remove from the enemy-male list.

“Daddy, too.” She contemplated the list of men she knew. Many had wonderful attributes. There was only one man she’d toss to the Devil as bait.

“Steven,” she hissed.

If they’d married, they’d be celebrating their sixth-month anniversary—maybe. Odds were that if she’d married the snake, they’d be on their way to a divorce anyway. As Granddaddy Lind always said, “A leopard doesn’t change its spots.”

Steven hadn’t crossed her mind in a while. A welcomed relief to the agony and shame of learning that he was both a liar and a cheat. After breaking their engagement, she’d cried for days, but never confided the reason she refused to marry him. She couldn’t bring herself to say she’d found him in bed, the bed they picked out together, with another woman. As if that wasn’t bad enough, he had the unmitigated audacity to try to convince her that it wasn’t what she thought. Later, he tried to blame her with legal mumbo-jumbo about her part in the problem because he couldn’t keep his pants zipped!

He destroyed her trust.

But she hated herself for not reading the signs. Hindsight was always 20/20. Broken dates with lame excuses. Dragging his feet on wedding details. Her sister had even covered for him once. That made the pain of his betrayal cut deeper.

“All men don’t cheat,” she reminded herself. Could there be a world without men? She’d managed without one for six months, and it left her feeling wiser.

And now she was on her way to meet a man Dr. Brown had assigned to her. How would that work out?

She made a right turn and pulled through ornate, wrought-iron gates that swung open from tall stone pillars. Impressive, if not intimidating, the gates of Dr. Westcott’s home.

Vehicles parked along the wide u-shaped drive, some two abreast. She pulled her Volvo into the next open space and hoped someone wouldn’t block her in, in case she exited early.

“Hey, Branna Lind, glad you could make it!” Brian hollered.

He trotted in her direction as she stepped from her car. She waved to him, then spied the old beat-up white truck. Was farmer-guy there? It might be easier to make conversation with him, than with other faculty members. They could talk “house.” She wanted to hear about the remodeling, assuming he bought it. Of course, she’d make the appropriate apology for her prior rudeness.

“Hi Brian.” She smiled when he appeared beside her. She reached inside her trunk for the box with her salad.

“Here, let me,” Brian said, setting down a bag and extracting the box from her arms.

His familiar face eased the anxiety of meeting an entire staff of people. She picked up Brian’s bag. A couple of liters of soda.

“Guys,” Brian said. “We don’t cook.”

“Right.” She’d never had a guy cook for her. Most guys she knew were interested in wrangling a dinner invitation from her only to eat Greta’s cooking.

“So this is where the great and powerful Westcott lives?” she joked.

“Yes, Mrs. Westcott is very powerful.” Brian grinned. “She is a Littleton. They’re into everything...automotive.”

She cocked her head, urging him to continue.

“She’s from an old family. They own the Lincoln and Cadillac dealership in town, a tow truck company, an auto parts store and a detailing shop. You know, one of those places that paints trucks to look like that.” He motioned to a Ford truck painted blood red with yellow and oranges flames from hell burning from behind the wheels.

“I see.” She filed the information way, in case she needed the tidbit in the future. Like at a party during a trivia game about the college President. Or to have her Volvo painted.

“Yeah, the doctor married up when he married her,” he said.

Brian didn’t bother to ring the doorbell, just opened the front door and walked in as if he owned the place. She followed his lead.

“My mother and Claire, Mrs. Westcott that is, are second cousins on their mother’s side,” he whispered. They reached the dining room where desserts covered every surface, and a woman directed traffic.

“Brian, as if I don’t see you enough.”

“Cousin Claire, this is one of the new faculty members. Please meet Miss Branna Lind.”

“Welcome. And I’ll bet you’re the one who brought the salad,” Mrs. Westcott said, peering into the open box.

Brian gasped with mock surprise. “You know I can toss a salad.”

Mrs. Westcott smiled sweetly at her, then turned to Brian. “You can toss a football, toss a basketball into a hoop, but toss a salad? You can’t toss that one over on me.”

They laughed. She liked Mrs. Westcott. Though she couldn’t quite reconcile the middle-aged woman in a pressed linen dress, wearing sandals and pearls as the wife of the much-older Dr. Westcott. She wondered if Mrs. Westcott had ever been on the horns of dilemma.

“If you wouldn’t mind, Brian, please take the salad to the buffet table set up out back. The food is arranged under one of the tents. Ms. Lind, I look forward to visiting with you.” Mrs. Westcott left them to greet other incoming guests.

“I like her,” Branna said.

Brian grinned. “Yeah, she’s great. Paddled my butt a time or two when I was kid and got out of line. She’s always Cousin Claire to me.”

She followed Brian out the back door to a wide expanse of yard. A wooden dance floor had been constructed a few feet in front of the opening of the long tents that formed a U. Another tent on the other side of the dance floor protected the band as they played on a raised stage. Large fans, like ones she’d seen on the sidelines at professional football games, pushed air around to keep everyone cool.

The two side tents were dedicated spaces for dining. Cloth-covered tables showed off flower centerpieces and chairs offered seating. Pots and serving dishes and casseroles lined the tables of the self-serve food tent. Given the setup of the tents and the crowd flow, it appeared Mrs. Westcott had organized this type of function before. It all looked effortless, but Branna had experience with event planning and understood the magic that happened behind the scenes.

“Miss Lind, welcome!” Dr. Westcott boomed. From the food tent, he motioned to her. She picked her way, careful of where she stepped. Darn Jimmy Choos. Her heels caught in the soft ground making her bobble like a doll.

“Salads on this end,” Dr. Westcott told Brian, who placed her salad bowl on the table. “Adult beverages are over there.” Dr. Westcott pointed to the far side of the tent where a bar stood with tubs of drinks surrounding it.

“Thank you, sir. I think I’ll get a glass of wine,” she said. “After I toss the salad.”

“Enjoy yourselves.” Dr. Westcott slapped Brian on the back.

“I’ll catch up with you in a few minutes,” Brian said when Dr. Westcott wandered away. “Save me a dance.” Then, he, too, disappeared into the throng.

Alone, she scanned the crowd as she crossed the tent to the beverage bar. She recognized a few faces, folks she’d met during her interview, but didn’t see the man who owned the beat up pickup. Nor her mystery man. Maybe her assumption was wrong. Maybe he wasn’t a faculty member after all.

“Dr. Brown, nice to see you.” She greeted the Vice President with a handshake.

“Nice to see you, Ms. Lind. I hope you’ll enjoy yourself this evening. You remember Ms. Parker?”

“It’s Vivian. Please, call me Vivian,” the woman said with a lilting laugh.

The woman’s grace, her perfect blond hair, perfect manicured nails, chic summer dress and not-too-high heels charmed Branna. Vivian reminded her of her mother—in only the best way, however, she doubted Miss Vivian would appreciate the comparison.

“I want to introduce you to the man you haven’t met, yet. But I haven’t seen him. I’ll find you when I can tie him down,” Dr. Brown said, looking around.

“Branna,” a raspy voice called.

Riggs made a beeline in her direction. The short stocky man was the antithesis of what she expected whenever she thought of a basketball coach. If someone had said football or wrestling, she’d believe that, but Lakeview Community College didn’t have a football or wrestling team. The squat man chewed on the end of a fat unlit cigar and hiked up his pants at the waist when he reached her.

“You’re gonna have to come watch us play,” he said out of one side of his mouth.

“Ah, sure. I can do that.”

“We’re gonna make the playoffs this year. Might go all the way in our division!”

Branna stared and nodded. Did Coach think she was hard of hearing? Must, given the way he was yelling at her.

“Hello, Coach. I need to borrow Ms. Lind.” Bitsy Webster, Dr. Brown’s secretary, stepped into the conversation. She linked her arm with Branna’s. “I brought my famous spinach and artichoke dip. I know how much you love it.”

Bitsy took another step back and pulled her along. “Later,” she called over her shoulder, continuing the retreat.

Branna tried to stay upright while she walked mostly backwards. Bitsy still clutched her arm. The woman had to be close to Grandmother Lind’s age. Even had the apple-round cheeks and warm smile of a perfect grandmother. Her shiny gray hair curled into a halo around her head, and a pair of reading glasses hung around her neck.

“Whew! Thank goodness the heat and humidity let up.” Bitsy turned and continued to march her across the yard. “Riggs can be one intense man.”

They stopped by two empty chairs and Bitsy motioned for Branna to sit. “I’ve known Arty for years. He’s not much to look at, but he’s a winning coach.”

“I see.” She couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“Oh, yeah, honey. He’s really a marshmallow-moon pie.”

“Good to know.”

“Well, he can get excited, ya know—talking sports—I didn’t want you to ruin your pretty white blouse. He has a tendency to spit.” Bitsy’s mouth curled into an apologetic grin.

“Spit?” Did she really want to know?

“Talking and chewing at the same time when he eats. Not a good thing.”

“I see.” It wasn’t a pleasant picture.

“Grab a plate and get some food. Everyone’s nice.” Bitsy hurried off when the band started up an old country song.

Branna sat. She watched Dr. Brown move Vivian around the dance floor, and then when the band came to the end of the song, Dr. Brown folded Vivian backward into a dip. Even over the music, she heard Vivian’s lilting laugh.

She heard love in the laughter. Sadness pinched her heart. She had never laughed like that with Steven. She never looked at Steven the way Vivian looked at Dr. Brown.

Vivian was a woman in love. Would she ever look at a man like that? Well, certainly not at her boss. As for Vivian and Dr. Brown, their relationship in or out of school wasn’t her business, and she wouldn’t pry. Yet, she envied the ease of company the two shared. Their love.

She came to Lakeview to work. She’d pour all of her energy into her students and take up a new hobby. Maybe pottery. Maybe she’d get a pet. A dog. The one pickup-guy had with him appeared impressively obedient. Yes, she’d investigate a dog.

“I’m back,” Brian said. “How about that dance?” He offered his hand.

“Now?” Brian had no clue that dancing made her squeamish. She’d embarrassed herself in public more than once at the charity ball her mother hosted each year. Folks at home expected sub-par dance moves from her. Often, she was the free entertainment. That wasn’t the impression she wanted her fellow faculty members to have of her. “Maybe later?” she pleaded sheepishly.

“No pressure. I’ll find you before the night is over.” Brian snagged a passing woman and with a tug, both were on the dance floor.

Wanting to be farther from the dancing, she rose and started in the direction she’d originally intended—to the beverage bar. Something in her hands would mask her awkwardness. Maybe Dr. Newbern would show, they would make polite, but brief conversation, and then she could thank her hosts and leave. After living all her life in a small community where everyone knew everyone else, or was related, she’d taken social events for granted. Here, she was a fish out of water.

The crowd had doubled in size since her arrival. As if walking a maze, she wove her way between people, smiling and nodding as she wandered. She finally made it to the bar. No server waited behind the counter as she’d seen before. On the ground, washtubs filled with ice held bottles of soda and water.

She bent to pluck a bottle of water from a tub, when Cole Haan loafers, just like the ones she’d picked out for her bother, stepped up to the other side of the tub. A masculine hand grabbed the bottle she reached for.

“May I get that for you?”

She straightened. “It’s you!”

“From the bookstore.” The man smiled. Her heart melted. He was sexier than she remembered. Before, she had viewed him through rain-drenched glass, now with nothing between them, he appeared in sharp focus, filling the breadth of her vision.

Her face warmed, and she offered her hand, hoping her face hadn’t turned ten shades of red. “I’m Branna Lind.”

The man grinned wider, yet instead of taking her hand, he held his up, as he’d done when glass separated them that afternoon. “Hello Branna Lind. It’s nice to meet you.”

Her face heated more. Was he mocking her? Or teasing?

“That was silly of me...at the bookstore. I don’t know what to say. The storm. Lightning. The exploding tree...” She was babbling. Embarrassment did that to her. Hadn’t she had enough humiliation? “Nice to meet you...”

When he didn’t offer his name, to cover her discomfort, she twisted on the top to open the bottle of water. Soaked in condensation, it slipped through her fingers. He caught it before it hit the ground, opened it, and handed back to her.

“How ’bout a dance? I saw you watching Dr. Brown and Ms. Parker.”

His smile disarmed her. A true deer-in-the-headlights experience. A lock of hair fell across his forehead, same as it had that afternoon. Lacing her fingers around the bottle stopped her from reaching up and running them through his hair.

“Dance?” After the bookstore incident, she couldn’t look any more foolish to him, right? She’d already ruined any opportunity for a great first impression. Did anyone ever make a good second one? A twirl around the floor might be a way to redeem her image, if only she could move both feet without looking at them.

“Yes? Dance?” he asked.

Her brain said, “No. No. No,” but she heard her mouth answer, “Yes.”

“Great.” His eyes twinkled. An energy about him made her wish her dancing skills could outshine any other woman’s at the party. She’d settle for a chance just to spend time with him. Even if it meant dancing. There was something so compelling about him, she couldn’t put into words. The intense pull of attraction baffled her, but heck—she was up for the adventure.

Besides, he still hadn’t mentioned his name. She wouldn’t leave the party without finding it out. “What about your job?” she asked.

“Job? Oh, the bar? Naw, I’m just helping out. It’s Brian’s job tonight. He’ll be back in a moment. Besides, there are only adults here. If they can’t make themselves a drink, then they can do without.” He held out his hand, tilted his head toward the band and the dance floor, then raised his eyebrows, challenging her once more.

“Well...Okay.” What better way to get to know him than to dance? Was it the Italians who said dancing was like making love? That made her want to fan the blush creeping into her face. “Am I allowed to know your name?”

“How about a dance first?”

Flustered, she didn’t know how to refuse. She had no clue who he was, but guessed he had to be a faculty member, otherwise, why would he be there? She took a sip of water, recapped the bottle, then gently grasped his outstretched hand. The quivering sensation that raced through her when their fingers touched made her jerk back. She stared at him.

He looked nothing like redneck-guy from the Victorian.

Was there something in the air in Lakeview, or was it the water?

He reached for her hand and held tight. She couldn’t ignore the thrill of touching him. Just his hand. The rapid pounding of her heart made her thankful the band played loudly, otherwise, she was certain everyone could hear the thudding in her chest. She would never admit to anyone that she bubbled with giddiness as she followed that man, a stranger, to the dance floor. A bold move. Different from the Branna Lind that everyone in Bayou Petite knew. The one that was expected to be totally proper at all times. Which meant never dancing with a stranger. No matter how hot he looked.

On the dance floor, he moved well. She was a poor partner for someone so accomplished. When she missed a step and landed with her heel on his toes, he grimaced, then swung her into another step, one where her heels missed his toes. With her lack of smooth moves, she wouldn’t have thought dancing would be enjoyable, however, unless he faked things really well, the grin on his face said he was having fun, too. When was the last time she’d danced and enjoyed herself, completely unconcerned about appearances? And she had thought fun was overrated. Silly her.

However, déjà vu haunted her.

The sexy man in front of her, the Brooks Brothers, country-club-type, with broad shoulders and muscled arms, bore no resemblance to the shaggy-haired, unshaven, pickup dude she’d met while house hunting.

Except...her palms heated with a quivering tingle whenever they met his.

What was up with that?