BayouBabe99er (BookStrand Publishing Romance) (2 page)

“Ya lettin’ the air out.” Drake came face to face with the store clerk’s curious expression. “Doused ya, huh?”

Drake pivoted to resume his watch of Sharlene, momentarily, ignoring the Southern drawl with the Cajun flavor. She seemed to have trouble starting her vintage truck before the engine rattled in cooperation. She drove off the lot and moseyed by them toward the light. “Why do you say that?” he asked halfheartedly, for his eyes were glued to the departing truck. He prepared to wave, but she never gave him the time of day.

“Hmmm. Didn’t know she was back.” That made Drake face him. The shop clerk seemed to size him up. “Ya don’t wanna mess with them Moutons.”

“And why not?”

“They’a ornery bunch. Stay mostly to they self.” He left Drake hanging out at the entrance—spying—until Sharlene turned and was out of sight.

Drake entered to wafting cool air pushed around by a couple of strategically placed black oscillating fans. The overpacked interior boasted everything from dry goods to a small deli counter complete with an eating area off to the side. The place also appeared to be the location to purchase bait for fishing excursions. It didn’t look like there’d been much business lately out back on the dock.

“Do you have a phone I can use?”

“Gon’ cost ya.”

Drake shook his head. “I can pay,” he reassured and pulled his water-logged cell phone and soggy wallet from his wet cargo knee-knockers.

Fishing was the way Sharlene and her elderly uncle hoped to spend their free time since her return to the hamlet. They stayed away from the job loss topic, opting for one just as depressing and twice as emotional. Their feet dangled off the pier as they studied the changes in the environment. Once upon a time, the lake they admired teemed with water traffic. Today’s absence of boaters was the new norm.

It was mosquito-buzzing quiet out there.

“Meet’n in the gym t’night.”

Sharlene whacked at a bug. “I thought all of that was over, Uncle Moot.”

“They can’t jus’ come down here like a flock’a pigeons and crap all over us.” His voice grated in his throat.

That sound was so familiar. His colloquialisms amused her. Sharlene had to laugh.

“Some folks settled. Some didn’t,” he explained in his Cajun vernacular, looking at her with eyes filled with hope.

Her uncle’s countenance revealed he weathered many storms in his lifetime. He was a fighter from the heart. She’d be damned if he fought this battle alone. “What time do we have to be there?”

He perked up a bit. “Six.”

“Well, how about a bite to eat at the grill?”

“Girl, you know ain’t nothin’ they fix I don’t fix better.” A gloating grin caused that glint in his rheumy eyes.

“Of course, you’re right, Uncle Moot,” she agreed. “I just thought since we were already here, it would be a nice outing until it’s time to go.” He seemed to think hard about her proposition. “My treat.”

Her uncle objected. “No, girl. Hold on to yo’ cents.” Lithe movements had him on his feet with a hand to her elbow. He collected their rods. She latched onto the bucket. Together, they marched up the hill straight to the truck for the drop-off and then to the eating place.

“Moot!” The greeting came loaded with surprise. “Long time no see.”

“Say, Clyde.” Uncle Moot pushed Sharlene up to the counter. “Sha, here, feelin’ brave. Wanna try some of that slop you call food.”

Sharlene listened hard to be able to tell what they said, because of their heavy accents. Before long, they conversed in a language she hadn’t heard, let alone practiced since leaving the area years ago. They ribbed each other before turning their attention back to her.

“Moot ordered ya a catfish sandwich. Okay wit’ that?” the storekeeper asked.

A big smile crossed her face. “Sounds yummy.”

“Won’t be long, then.”

Clyde was gone. Those words sent Sharlene and her uncle to the small eating corner. They talked softly about Sharlene’s children whom Uncle Moot hadn’t seen in years. She brought him up to date on her twenty-four- and twenty-two-year-old girls, boasting her oldest made her a grandmother two years ago.

Her eyes focused on something far away as she fought to extinguish the fire of loneliness. The aroma drifting in the air drew her into the present. Clyde handled two platters along with the same number of cold strawberry drinks. She couldn’t resist snatching a golden french fry just as the plates landed under their noses.

“Here ya go. Bon appétit.”

Uncle Moot waited until Clyde disappeared into the back then leaned down for a whiff. The all clear was simply the way he manhandled his po’boy.

The first bite of the catfish and potato salad sandwich threw Sharlene back to those glorious days as a kid growing up in the bayou. Flavors blended to caress her tongue. She chewed slowly to savor each mouthful while eagerly anticipating the next. One look across the table certified she wasn’t the only one enjoying the meal.

A swig of red soda set the whole thing off.

“Not bad as I remember,” Uncle Moot said, gulping down his last bite. “The fish was flaky, tho’ I tasted a lil’ oil.”

She was practically finished, and all she tasted was goodness.

“Gon’ be hard for folks to fight that devil. He got too much money and too many people in his back pocket.”

The issue of injustice was now on the table along with their plates.

“Do you really think so, Uncle Moot?” She wasn’t as sure.

“Not enough fighters left, Sha.”

“These families have been here for generations. They know no other way of life. Most of those who left came back.” Sharlene grunted. “Look at me.”

“Us ol’ ones tried to hold on to be able to pass on our way of life. But the new world opened up, claiming our young.” He shook his head in remembrance. “And—they disclaimed our ways.”

He didn’t say so, yet, but she fell into that category. “Don’t worry,” she comforted. “I’ll fight right beside you.”

“You a good girl, Sha. Sorry my brother ain’t ’round to see the wonderful woman you growed into from a wee—”

“Skeeta,” they said in unison and had a good laugh afterward.

Sharlene wiped her hands on her napkin. Her chair scraped when she rose to kiss his cheek. He beamed at her as she reclaimed her seat just as the bells clanged when the front door opened. A new customer stepped in.

“Miss Mouton,” Drake Cormier greeted. He smiled when she turned at his salutation.

He definitely looked completely different dried and creased. “I never told you my name.” Her retort drew Uncle Moot’s keen interest. “This is the catch I told you I made the other day,” she informed.

“No, you didn’t. I found out from—”

“Well, Moot? What ’cha think?” Clyde made his way over to them.

“Him,” Drake continued his answer.

Uncle Moot’s reply was none too friendly. “I think you got a big mouth, Clyde. That’s what I think. You know this boy?”

“Look at him good, Moot.” Clyde’s defense was still to come. “Who do he look like to you?”

All of them gave the newcomer the once-over. Uncle Moot even stood as if measuring Drake’s stature against his own tall, although slightly stooped, frame. The resemblance to his old nemesis was an eye opener.

“You a Cormier, ain’t ’cha, boy?” Clyde bellowed.

“Yes, sir, I am,” Drake admitted.

“Knew it when I first laid eyes on you.” Clyde wiped his hands on his apron. “You folks finished?”

“Not me.” Sharlene resumed her meal while monitoring all that went on.

Clyde took Moot’s plate before addressing Drake. “What ’cha having, son?”

* * * *

“Nothing for me. Thanks.” He didn’t have time to eat. It was too close to meeting time. “I will take one of those strawberry drinks.”

“Coming right up. Take a load off.” He invited Drake to join his other two customers.

“Do you mind?” he asked.

She quipped, “It’s a free world.”

“No, Sha. Everything got a price.”

Drake looked at the man who seemed to take exception to his presence as he eyed him long and hard. The urge to look at Sharlene was just too great to ignore. His view switched. She was stunning. He admired her cute little fro, her smooth, silky-looking brown-sugar skin and her inquisitive look that searched his inner being.

“Uncle Moot, meet Drake Cormier. He says he doesn’t bite.”

Uncle Moot leaped to his feet without warning. “Cormier wit’ teeth…bites.”

Drake observed as the testy old man stomped to the door. The last of Sharlene’s tasty drink swirled in the bottle as she struggled out of her corner seat. It was said haste made waste. Sharlene proved that to be so. Tripping over her own feet landed her where she had no right to be—smack dab in Drake’s lap.

His hands connected with her body right at the hips. A deep breath filled his lungs with her soft, rose-petal scent. Her body’s stiffening alerted him to her embarrassment. At that point, Drake expected her to go on the defensive.

But she didn’t.

* * * *

Oh, my God!
She hoped he didn’t feel her trembles as her insides shriveled from the heat of his touch. Each long digit on her body singed her skin. If she didn’t move—and move soon—she would certainly smolder into ashes.

“I’m sorry,” she uttered. He boosted her as she attempted to rise from such a compromising position.

“My pleasure.”

“Skeeta!” Uncle Moot yelled from the walkway.

“Coming, Uncle.” Embarrassed at the public use of her childhood nickname, Sharlene made a hasty exit, fighting down the giddy feeling that lingered. She reacted more like a schoolgirl. Her elder’s admonishment spurred her on. But the jolting physical contact made her senses reel. A look back as she retreated let her see Drake and the wide-toothed smile on his swarthy features.

“Order! Order!”

Tempers in the audience flared. Angry yells were directed at the panel lining the dais.

“Please, everyone!”

Residents packed the small school gym to the rafters and announced their disapproval with loud, objecting rants. They had the appearance of hardworking people because that was what they were. They were people connected on one accord in the face of their community’s possible extinction.

“Ya’ll can take yo’ oily money and stick it where the sun don’t shine,” one disgruntled participant yelled.

“It was an offer some of your neighbors found very generous.”

“Traitors!”

“Sellouts!”

“Who sold out?” Sharlene leaned over to loudly whisper in Moot’s ear.

“Folks ya never woulda thought. Guess love of money topped heritage.”

The panelist said, “We’ve brought with us this afternoon someone to help all of you cut through the red tape of your claims.”

“We not selling!” the man behind Sharlene yelled. “Clean up yo’ mess and get out!”

“The oil company’s success of the cleanup is clearly seen around the pumping stations in the Gulf’s perimeter. Pretty soon, you’ll be able to resume your fishing businesses in pristine waters.”

“Oil’s been leaking outta some of them pumps for decades. Your company counts the amount as negligible. No big deal!” someone contested. “It is a big deal if the seafood tastes like crude.”

“Uncle, what the company spokesperson said is
not
true.” Sharlene defied the notion of clear water. “I saw oil residue in the Pass.”

His look said he wasn’t surprised.

Another member of the panel took the mike for the handoff. “Please give your undivided attention to our next committee member.”

The man bounding up the steps to accept the mike was tall, dark, and sinfully handsome. “Good evening, everyone. I’m Drake Cormier, the liaison officer.”

Sharlene sat straighter on the bleachers.

Moot snorted. “Tol’ ya he bites.”

“I know this is a very frustrating time for all of you. It’s my pledge to speed up the payment process. The swifter things move, the faster you get on with your lives.” Drake’s commanding presence caused a lull in the heckling. “Each head of household here should have a packet like this one distributed this evening.” He held up a golden envelope. “In that material is complete instructions on how to place your claim. A website address and telephone numbers are provided to answer questions that may arise.” Pacing to center stage, he added, “Remember, I’m here to help.”

“The so-called compensation I’ve heard isn’t enough to make up the difference of what we’ve already lost,” a voice in the crowd sneered.

“Got bills I can’t pay ’cause I can’t fish!”

“I understand—”

Drake didn’t get the opportunity to finish.

“Don’t say you understand how we feel, Mr. Highfalutin!”

Drake never lost his outward composure. He began his statement, again. “I understand—the importance of returning your lives to normalcy. My intent is to help you do that.”