Bayou Born

chapter 8

James stood back and looked at the room. It turned out how he’d envisioned. The first of the bedrooms to be painted, he was inspired when he started, but the spark had waned, and he was glad to be done. The information he found at the paint store recommended sea-foam green for calm, but calm came only after paint covered all the walls.

He dropped the roller into the empty metal paint tray. The clatter woke Beauregard, who raised his head as if to question the need for noise.

“Sorry, boy. I’m done. Feel free to go back to sleep.”

He tried to force thoughts of Katie aside. They hit him every time he entered this room. Meredith had said it had been her nursery when she was born, then transformed into a pink palace for a little girl. He’d painted it a neutral color. All elements of “girl” had been removed. Though much of his grief over Katie had settled into sweet memories, occasionally, a painful one floated to the top. It always surprised him when some little reminder of his daughter grabbed him and wrung another pain from his heart. She’d been born three years ago, and lived for only five months.

Quite possibly, the room would’ve been hers. Would she have loved it? Had she lived, he would have painted the room any color she wanted, and then filled it with books and toys. Caroline had dumped all of Katie’s things at Goodwill after Katie died.

He peeled off the blue tape used to protect the baseboards and moldings from wet paint. Splotches of color smeared his hands as he rolled the tape into a ball. Katie’s sweet smile danced in his mind.

The first year following her death, he’d visited her grave each month. She rested there with other Newberns in Pine Mount cemetery, behind the church his great, great grandparents had started. The church baptized, married, and buried generations of Newberns. He had paid extra to have a teddy bear carved on the back of the headstone. To his knowledge, Caroline had never seen it. The second year, after his mother suggested he might consider grief counseling, he visited Katie’s grave every other month. During the last year, guilt had lessened, and he only placed flowers there on special occasions.

Ching. Ching. The doorbell interrupted his thoughts. He tossed a wad of tape into the trashcan, then wiped his hands on his jeans as he ran downstairs.

“Delivery,” a uniformed man said, as if James couldn’t see the large crate the man had perched on a dolly on the porch.

“Sign here.” The man handed over a tablet-sized pad with a stylus attached. As James signed, the man wiggled the dolly from underneath the crate, then took back his pad and started down the steps.

“Wait,” James called. “I need help getting this inside.”

“Sorry. That’s not what we do. Delivery is only to the front door.”

“Shit. How do I get this inside?”

The man shrugged and ran to his delivery truck pulling the wheeled dolly behind him.

As if on cue, James’ cell phone vibrated in his back pocket.

“Hey! Wanna go skiing?” Bobby Park, his best friend since childhood, could be counted on for a good time.

“Can’t.”

“Whatever it is, drop it. Let’s go.”

“Got to find a way to get my gun safe from the front porch to the study inside the house.”

“A problem?”

“Well, it’s not like I’m used to pushing four-hundred pounds around with no help.”

“I’ll come.”

“Naw. It’s too far. Besides, I’ve got other work to do. It’s not like someone’s going to steal the thing. If they try, good luck to them. I’ll call someone in town to come help me.”

“House work or work-work?”

He shook his head. If he said he had a lunch appointment with a colleague, Bobby would ask with whom. If he told him, Bobby would call it a date, not work-work. Then, that news would be all over two counties before he could blink, with everyone taking bets on whether or not he’d make it to the alter with Miss Lind. Why did everyone think he had to get married?

“Work-work. The new semester starts Monday.”

“Have fun, Professor. Maybe we’ll ski and cook a pig over Memorial weekend. I can swing by tomorrow and help you.”

“Great.” He closed his phone as Beauregard bounded down the stairs. At a fast trot, the dog cleared the front porch in a single leap and headed for the bushes. James looked at his watch. Noon straight up. He needed a shower before heading out to play tour guide. It wouldn’t look good if he was late for the meeting—a make-up for the one he’d missed when the department chair welcomed Miss Branna Lind to the English department.

He owed her professional courtesy, but wondered exactly which virtues Dr. Brown had extolled about him. The older man was blind to all but his better qualities. He wouldn’t want to embarrass Dr. Brown by being less than advertised. Maybe he’d call to invite the good doctor to join them for lunch?

“Beauregard, let’s go. Back inside, boy.”

He waited for Beau to enter and climb the stairs. Following Beau up the stairs, he trudged upward with the phone to his ear.

“Dr. Brown,” he said when the older man answered. “I’m taking Miss Lind to lunch, then for a tour of town. Would you and Vivian like to join us?”

“We’re on the boat on the St. Johns. Maybe next time you’ll join us? Now, take good care of Miss Lind today. We want her to stay for a long while.”

“Got it. Meeting her at one fifteen.”

Walking into the bathroom, he shed his work clothes. Steam rose from the shower as he stepped inside. With hot water sluicing over his body, he contemplated his colleague. That’s how he had to think of her. It was too dangerous otherwise.

What would it take to persuade him to move, as Branna had done? Away from home and family. Or what was she leaving behind and why? Was it to escape?

He dried and dressed quickly. Downstairs, he rubbed Beau behind the ear. “Hey, fella. You’re on guard duty, but I don’t want to find any tail brushing on the wet paint in the room upstairs. I’ll leave the music on to keep you company.”

Hitting the button on the stereo, it sent out strains of Keb ‘Mo picking on a Dobro guitar. Last October, he’d traveled to Austin, Texas to hear the man play. The Dobro had a sound all of its own, at least in the hands a master like Mr. Moore. Locally, country music trumped the blues, but that didn’t matter to him. He’d never been one to follow the pack, preferring a solitary path, yet another reason he never dated anyone from work.

But he’d enjoyed Branna’s company last night.

Was spending more time with her tempting fate?