Bayou My Love: A Novel (11 page)

He
reached around me, taking the keys. “Here, let me.”

When
he pushed the door open, I stepped past him into the house, avoiding his stare.
He hesitated in the pale light, as if he wasn’t quite sure what to do.

“Just
go,” I said. I couldn’t get away from him fast enough.

“I’m
not leaving until you talk to me,” he said, his voice cool and even.

“I’ve
got nothing else to say to you, Jack.”

He
held me to him and said, “Just listen to me.” His lips moved against my ear,
and I felt my whole traitorous body relax.

I
tried to ignore how good his arms felt around me.

He
turned me toward him and nudged me against the wall so that his body was
pressed against mine, as if he knew I needed him to hold me steady. “What were
you thinking back there at the bar? You could have been hurt.”

I
scoffed. “I was upset about Miranda, sure. But then Remy told me you were
trying to steal my house.”

“Remy
lied to you. I never said any of that.”

I
swallowed hard.

“Look
at me,” he said, and I did.

“Why
didn’t you kick me out when you first met me?” he asked.

My
legs felt like they would buckle at any second. Jack was the only thing holding
me up. “I felt sorry for you. That’s the only reason I agreed to any of this.”

“That’s
a lie,” he said, staring me down. “You need me. And you want me.”

“What
I want is someone who isn’t trying to con me.”

“If
anybody’s conning you, it’s Remy. And if you can’t tell the difference, then
you’re not half as smart as I thought you were.”

“I
never should have let myself—”

He
gazed at me, his eyebrow arched. “Never should have let yourself what?”

“Never
should have let you stay.”

He
lifted my chin and pushed my hair behind my ear. “That’s not what you were
going to say.”

Before
I could argue, he slid his hands into my hair and kissed me. I moved to turn
away, but he deepened the kiss, his teeth pinching my lip. His taut chest pressed
into mine, and I shivered as he tugged at my hair. I grabbed his hips and dug
my fingers into his back until he groaned.

When
he finally pulled away, I felt dizzy, out of breath. He stared at me, as if
waiting to see what I’d do. My hand rested at his waist, my fingers sliding
over his belt. Before he could say anything, I pulled him to me, kissing him
with a fierceness I hadn’t felt before.

I
felt the tension in his arms as he slid his hands along my skin, holding me
tight against him. I gripped his shoulders, hoping to make him ache for me the
way I did for him.

When
I slid my hands into his hair, he stopped and took a step away from me. My lips
tingled, and I could still taste him. It was getting harder to breathe.

“Hang
on,” he said, his hand barely resting on my shoulder.

“Just
get over here.” I grabbed him by the collar and closed the space between us.

He
stepped backwards, biting his lip. “Not like this.”

My
head was spinning, but all I could think of was the way his hands would feel as
they traced the curves of my shoulders, my hips. “Stop toying with me. Isn’t
this what you wanted?”

He
let me kiss him, but then pulled away. “I can’t,” he said. “You’re still
drunk.” With little effort, he lifted me into his arms and carried me up the
stairs. He set me down on the bed in Vergie’s room and flipped on the lamp.

“Jack,”
I said, pulling him closer. I slid one hand in the waist of his jeans as I
kissed him. He groaned, pushing my hands away.

“Sleep
it off,” he said, easing me onto my back. He pulled my boots off and set them
on the floor, then swung my legs onto the bed.

“You’re
leaving me again?” I said. “What are you so afraid of?”

He
leaned over me, pulling the sheet up, and pinned my hand to my side when I
reached for him again.

“Stay,”
I said, already feeling my eyelids getting heavy.

He
kissed my forehead and whispered, “Good night, Enza. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

I
struggled to keep my eyes open, reaching for him again. But he was already
standing at the door, turning off the light.

“Jack,”
I said. My voice sounded so distant. “Wait.”

“What?”

“How’d
you know to come there tonight?”

“Buck
called me.”

He
started to close the door, but I called out to him again.

“What?”

“I’m
sorry I hit you. I don’t want you to leave.”

I
thought he said something else—I was sure I heard his voice, but it was so
distant now, like a bird calling from across the swamp. I heard the click of
the door, felt the breeze from the open window tickle my hair. Then there were
only his footsteps thumping down the stairs, echoing in the dark.

Chapter
8

Morning.
Vergie’s bedroom. Bourbon headache.

These
facts registered while I lay watching the threadbare curtains waver in the
breeze. My head was pounding, and already the room was too warm.

What
I didn’t remember was how I got into my own bed and why I was still wearing
jeans and a T-shirt. What I did remember was meeting Miranda, yelling at Jack,
going out for a drive, getting hungry and going to the seafood shack. Then
things got fuzzy. There was bourbon at the bar—lots of bourbon. And then
dancing. With Remy.

Remy.
I wished that had been a bourbon-induced dream. I shook my head, as if that
might straighten out my tangle of memories. Then I saw a flash of the scuffle
out in the parking lot. Remy’s bloody lip. And then Jack brought me home and
put me to bed.

Alone.
After I begged him to stay with me.

I
slid under the covers and groaned.

Eventually
I called up enough courage to haul myself out of bed and into the shower. When
I glimpsed myself in the mirror, I cringed. It only took that one glance to
convince me that everything I was afraid had happened actually had. I was
doomed to a walk of shame in my own goddamn house.

~~~~

After
what seemed like hours, I crept down the stairs, preparing myself for the
awkward conversation that surely awaited me. Jack would be in the kitchen,
making coffee, and I’d have to apologize for acting like an idiot, as much as
it pained me to do so. But when I got downstairs, there was no Jack. No coffee.

I
searched the house, but it was empty. The furniture in his bedroom was still
shoved together in the center like an island of maple and antique walnut. His
bed was still in pieces—we’d forgotten to put it back together. And then we’d
had that fight, and I’d left.

My
stomach tightened. I’d screamed at him and told him to leave.

In
the living room, a blanket and a pillow sat on the sofa. He’d stayed, but where
was he now? I peered out the window but didn’t see his truck in the yard.
Puzzled, I went to make my own coffee. His shirt was on the kitchen table.

When
I picked it up I saw the flecks of dried blood and felt sick as the rest of the
night came rushing back. Trying to break up the fight in the parking lot, Jack
throwing me over his shoulder and hauling me to his truck. I would be that
person everyone was talking about today. I shoved my palm against my forehead,
cursing myself for acting like I didn’t have a lick of sense. What on earth was
happening to me?

There
was a whining at the door, followed by persistent thumping. When I opened it,
Bella pushed the screen door against the frame with her paw. When I cracked the
screen, she rushed in and skidded behind me, then sat down and blinked at me,
her tongue lolling.

“Don’t
look at me like that.”

She
lay down next to my feet and let out a heavy sigh.

“You’re
the one that started dragging up voodoo, and look where it got us.”

She
stared up at me, and I swear that dog rolled her eyes.

“I
could do without the attitude,” I said, carrying a paint can into the kitchen.
I might as well get to work, with or without Jack. If he’d been called out to a
fire, I’d be waiting a long time.

~~~~

The
kitchen didn’t have a lot of wall space to paint. It had huge cabinets, a
picture window and white paneling under the chair rails. I was hoping my pale
yellow paint would brighten it up a bit and also take my mind off the night
before.

Maybe
it was best I couldn’t remember any further details.

I
washed the walls down with a sponge, then let them dry while I had my second
cup of coffee. Sufficiently caffeinated, I laid out drop cloths and stirred the
paint. When I came back with my tool box, Bella was sniffing the paint can.

“Hey,
no.”

She
sneezed into the can.

“Outside,”
I ordered. She snorted and then walked to the door. When I opened it, she
bolted. She didn’t stay miffed for long, that dog.

I
skipped the painter’s tape and used a brush and a putty knife to paint against
in tricky spots. As I worked my way around the cabinets, those memories of Remy
came creeping back. It was silly to have believed him for a nanosecond. He was
clearly trying to take me home, and I very nearly let him. Jack had been there
when I didn’t even know I needed him.

And
then I’d behaved like a child.

And
he’d stayed here with me anyway.

Standing
on the counter, I strained to reach the places just below the crown molding. I
was nearly done over the sink when there was a knock at the door.

“Hang
on,” I yelled. Holding the handle of the brush in my teeth, I backed down into
a chair, then onto the floor. I balanced the brush on the paint can, and the
knocking came again.

“Christ,”
I muttered. My head was pounding hard enough as it was.

I
opened the door and saw that it had started to rain. Miranda held the screen
door wide open.

Before
I could speak, she said, “Oh. You’re still here.”

“Well,
I do own the place. Miranda, is it?”

She
smacked her gum. “That’s right. Guess Jack told you about us.” She smiled a
tight smile, planting one hand on her hip. Today she had chosen extremely short
cutoffs and a tank top that showed far too much cleavage and the top of a lacy
red bra. I had a hard time picturing Jack even talking to her, let alone
touching her.

That
thought nauseated me all over again.

“I
guess you came back for your dish,” I said. “Let me get it for you.”

She
glared at me and popped her gum.

I
retrieved the dish from the kitchen, the untouched casserole still inside. When
I came back to the door, she had stepped into the hallway, the screen closed
behind her. “Here you go,” I said, thrusting it at her.

She
stumbled backward, teetering on her heels as she stepped down onto the porch
through the screen door. I boxed her in at the threshold, standing with one
hand on the doorknob.

“I
don’t know who you think you are,” she said, “but Jack doesn’t give a shit
about you. He only cares about me.”

I
started to slam the door, but Miranda wedged her foot in the threshold and
threw her shoulder into the door, knocking me off balance enough to push her
way inside. She may have been rail thin, but she was quick—no doubt accustomed
to squeezing her way into places where she didn’t belong.

“You
think you can come here and steal him out from under me?” she said, her voice
rising in pitch. “You think you got something I don’t?” She waved her finger in
my face, her bright pink nails flicking in the air between us. Her heels
clacked on the floor until she’d backed me against the stair rail. One more
step and she’d crash into me—then we’d both be wearing that damned casserole.

“You
should go now.”

“I’m
not going until I see Jack.”

I
balled my hand into a fist and said as calmly as I could, “He’s not here. And
unless you want me to call the sheriff, I suggest you leave.”

I
figured I could take her if I had to, but she looked like the kind that
scratched and pulled hair. That wasn’t my thing. I could use what I remembered
from college judo and kung-fu movies, though. She’d be easy to topple in those
ridiculous heels.

Miranda
laughed. “You’re a liar, just like him. I don’t feel anything but lies in this
room.” She held one arm out, as if invoking a spirit, and I thought for the
first time that she might actually be crazy. “Nope,” she said, closing her
eyes. “No truth. Not at all. You think you can—”

“Miranda!”

We
both turned toward the voice as the screen door opened.

Jack
held a paper bag to his chest, his shirt dappled by the rain. “What are you
doing? You’re not supposed to be within five hundred yards of here.”

“Baby,”
she said, her voice breathy. “I came to see you. I miss you.”

“Miranda,
the judge said if you did this one more time he was sending you to jail. Is that
what you want?”

“Honey,
please,” she said, sauntering toward him, her hips swaying. “We can fix this. I
know we can.”

He
set the bag down. “No, Miranda. You need to leave. Right now, or I’m calling
the sheriff.”

“Oh,
Jack,” she purred, pouting. “You don’t mean that.” She reached out to touch
him, and he recoiled. Behind them, a bolt of lightning streaked across the sky.

“I
told you not to come back here, and I meant it.”

She
glared at him, then looked back at me. “I see what’s going on here. But you’ll
get what you deserve.” She stepped toward me, but Jack grabbed her arm and
pulled her back onto the porch. The spring in the screen door popped, and it
stood wide open. The rain poured down, blowing a mist through the open door.

Miranda
pleaded as Jack pulled her down the porch steps. The dog rushed by him, a blur
of gray and brown, and streaked through the house like a bullet.

“Hey!”
I shouted, and was torn between chasing the muddy dog and calling the sheriff
myself. Outside, Jack had dragged Miranda onto the lawn. She had tossed the
covered dish on the ground and was flailing her arms above her head, like she
was calling down all the spirits to help her, but Jack turned his back and
returned to the house. She stood as still as an oak, the rain pounding against
her skin.

For
a minute, she seemed to not notice the storm at all, but then picked up the
dish and walked back to her car.

Jack
paused on the porch steps. He looked at me with a pitiful expression, one that
said he didn’t care to talk about this but knew he had to. His shirt clung to
his skin, soaked from the rain. The clicking of the dog’s toenails caught my
attention again as she bounded past me. From the kitchen, there was a clatter
and a snort, then the yellow-streaked dog raced up the stairs, leaving
buttercream paw prints in her wake.

“Dog!
Get back here, dog!” I yelled, and then bit my lip to hold in a string of
curses. The pounding of Catahoula paws rolled overhead. In the kitchen, the
paint pail was on its side, a lake of yellow spreading across the floor. I
squeezed my eyes shut, like I could stop time if I tried hard enough. If only I
could take back the last hour, the last couple of days, and start over again.

When
I opened my eyes, Jack was standing by the stairs. He placed two fingers in his
mouth, ripping out a whistle loud enough to shake the roof. Bella came running
back down the stairs and out the front door in a blur. Jack shut the door and
flipped the bolt.

“I’ll
take the kitchen,” he said. “You get the stairs.”

We
stumbled over each other in the kitchen, him sopping up yellow paint with a
sponge and a dustpan while I filled a bucket with water in the sink. As I ran
into the hallway with the soapy water, he fished a mop out of the closet and
went to work on the huge yellow splotch on the floor. The overturned paint can
had not been full, but it had enough paint in it to spread three or four feet
across the floor.

I
scrubbed the yellow paw prints off the stairs. They were drying fast, but the
water-based paint would come up with some effort. The trail of prints went all
the way through the upstairs hall but had quickly faded out. This was nothing a
quick polish wouldn’t fix.

Thunder
rumbled overhead. I shut the windows in the bedroom and then trudged down the
stairs, dreading what I’d find in the kitchen.

Jack
was on his hands and knees, scrubbing the floor with two wet dish sponges. I
knelt next to him, scrubbing the trail of paw prints that led into the hallway.

“I’m
sorry about all of this,” he said. He had that sad arch in his brows again.

“I
know,” I said. The paint was coming up, but it would leave a stain. The floor
would definitely have to be refinished. Maybe painted instead of stained.

“That’s
the best we can do,” I said.

He
kept scrubbing.

“Hey,”
I said, placing my hands over his. “Enough. This floor needed to be redone
anyway.”

He
stopped and sat back on his heels. “I’m sorry you had to deal with Miranda
again. Sometimes she won’t take no for an answer, and—” He shook his head,
staring at the floor. “She’s just had too hard a life.”

“You
don’t have to explain if you don’t want to,” I said. But I hoped he would.

“She
cared more for me than I did for her. That’s pretty much it.”

But
he did care. He cared enough not to embarrass her, not to be cruel out there in
the rain—and that made it impossible to be upset with him.

“How
long ago was this?”

“More
than a year,” he said. “Part of me thought she was finally over it, since she
hasn’t tried to see me in months.”