BayouBabe99er (BookStrand Publishing Romance) (5 page)

Drake smiled. With an inconspicuous lean, he taunted, “You…are…good.” What he got for his interference was an “accidental” elbow to the ribs. He let out a grunt.

“Payback,” she responded under her breath.

Moot pulled into the yard, unable to get into his usual spot because Drake’s rental occupied that parking place. “Clyde think he gon’ collect for using his airboat. Gon’ be yo’ bill, Cormier.”

“Yes, sir,” he agreed. “I take full responsibility.”

Moot grabbed the rifle from the gun rack and slammed his door. Sharlene slid out after Drake. That reply didn’t satisfy Moot. “Git goin’. Don’t let me catch you on my place, again.”

“I won’t bother you again, Mr. Mouton.” Drake scratched his way to his car.

“He did yank me into the boat, Uncle. That should count for something.”

“Only right he did. Knocked ya in, didn’t he?”

Neither Sharlene nor Drake could argue with that logic. All stood in the encroaching moonlight serenaded by swamp songs. Moot remembered his cargo in the truck bed, reseating his rifle and himself behind the wheel. He backed up to the water’s edge, guided by bright silver beams. Moot apparently wanted no help from Drake, who jumped to assist.

“Stay yo’ distance.”

“Let him help, Uncle Moot,” she encouraged. “The pirogue’s not on the trailer. So the extra hands will lighten the load.”

He strapped the motor blades up. Each man took a side to muscle the boat and engine into the water. Once done, Moot charged across the yard, up the steps, and burst into the house. Sharlene drove the truck to the front porch while Drake watched. He was near his vehicle when a rapid-fire order stopped him.

“Inside! Both ya!” Anybody observing would think they marched to purgatory. “Skeeta, in the shower!” He didn’t say another word until she moved to obey. “You, Cormier. Wash at the sink.”

* * * *

Moot slung a towel at Drake once he finished. Before long, Sharlene reappeared. Her tight curls had changed to a darker shade of red due to dampness. She appeared so cool and refreshed in her shorts and sleeveless top that complemented her skin tone. Beyond all of that, Drake took in the knots pimpling her fresh-looking skin.

“Sit!” Sharlene and Drake dropped into chairs. A bottle hit the table. Moot stood guard.

“No, Uncle.” Drake monitored their interaction. “I’m a woman with two grown daughters and a granddaughter.” Sharlene’s refusal was to sit on her hands—a stunt that indicated anything but maturity.

Moot shifted the bottle nearer and went to the refrigerator.

“What’s going on?” Drake inquired, rubbing furiously at his face, arms, and legs.

“Calamine lotion.” She had to admit, “It works. But—” Finishing her statement was useless since Drake snatched the bottle for the pour.

He lathered a handful over his face and neck first, opening his eyes to see her amused gaze. He wondered why Sharlene resisted. The stinging promptly subsided. Next to follow were his arms and legs where the medicated lotion smeared over his skin without disappearing. The harder he rubbed—the wider the smear. He peered at his outstretched limbs.

“Tried to warn you, but, you wouldn’t listen.” Her belly laugh was at his expense. It was her turn to take possession of the medicine. Sharlene used the dab approach, dotting only the raised areas of her skin.

Soon, the delicious aroma of eggs replaced the smell of the calamine lotion. Moot stepped to the table with three plates weighed heavily with grits, eggs, and pan sausage. Toast and coffee came on his return trip. That was when Sharlene’s stomach did a recall. Her last meal was hours and hours ago.

Moot took his place with a hearty bite before his rump hit the seat. Sharlene dug in. Drake eyed his meal with his full fork stranded in the air. Moot’s head bowed over his plate.

“Uncle, you’re a hoot a minute.” Sharlene directed Drake’s fork to her mouth, did an exaggerated chew, and clutched her throat with her tongue hanging out the side of her mouth. A snicker spilled out.

“Not yo’ time, Cormier,” Moot relayed. “Not yet.”

“Uncle Moot, don’t say things like that.” Her attention returned to her plate. “You’ll scare him.”

Drake braved a bite while listening to the banter across the table. He watched the exchange, noting the two shared a genuine affection. They forgot about him as their conversation lapsed into Cajun French, Sharlene stumbling to find the right words. Moot instructed her when memory seemed to fail her.

There was no denying they talked about him, for occasionally all eyes shifted his way. He didn’t care. He was confident Sharlene held the key to his survival while in the Mouton household. So Drake let his tired muscles relax.

“This is good sausage,” he exclaimed. The talking stopped.

“Alligator,” Moot offered.

Drake choked.

“Better you eat ’em than they eat you,” Moot declared with a hint of humor.

“I see your point.” He suffered another big bite to keep from offending his host. “How old is your granddaughter, Sharlene?”

The question clearly caught her totally off-guard. Yet she smiled pleasantly when she replied. “She’s two and quite a handful.”

“Is she as easygoing as her grandmother?”

“In my company less than five hours and already you know I’m easygoing?”

“Your contagious smile supports that.” His fork scraped up the final dregs of food.

“What you see is what you get, Drake.” She looked over her fork at him. “Unlike the fake concerned façade of your coworkers.”

That was a jab if ever he heard one. He wouldn’t take the bait. Not while under the roof of his known enemy. “The shots I got today will definitely come in handy. They’ll force their hand.”

“Call me a cynic. I don’t believe it’ll make a difference. The only thing that matters to the
powers that be
is the bottom line.” Sharlene pushed her unfinished plate away. “Ask me. I know.”

Drake called her bluff. “How do you know, Sharlene?”

Moot’s fork rang when it hit his plate.

“I’m a casualty of the quest for a bigger bottom line, Drake.”

“You lost your job,” he surmised, slapping his hand on a paper towel.

“The banking department I headed took a trip overseas. All of my people ended up on the street.” She took her plate to the sink, raking the scraps in the garbage.

“Damn. That’s too bad,” Drake said sympathetically. “You’ll find something better.”

“Where have I heard that?” she asked with loads of sarcasm. “Oh, yes. After every rejected interview for the last ninety-nine weeks.”

“Ninety-nine weeks?”

“Did I stutter?” she quipped. “I’ve been living off my savings and what little freelancing brings in.”

“I’m sorry, Sharlene.” Drake left the table.

“Save your pity for the ones big oil is messing over.” Her reach for his plate was futile. Drake emptied and washed his own to drop it in the drain board.

“I mean it when I say I’m here to help.” He snagged her hands. “Trust me.”

The silent member in the room recognized a scene from his own storybook. He was of little consequence during their dialogue. At this point, he was invisible. There was one way to break the spell.

Moot threw the towel Drake had earlier, and it hit Drake’s chest.

Moot had his attention. “Wash up and get out, Cormier.”

He did exactly that with no fanfare—only a soft “good-bye” to Sharlene.

“Well, wouldn’t you know it? He did it, again.”

Sharlene traipsed down the hall that was brightened by the early morning light. The door to Moot’s bedroom swung open on squeaky hinges. Sharlene peeped in to satisfy the belief he dodged her purposely. His sanctuary was orderly and spotless, all except the crumpled bedspread caught under the mattress.

Sharlene went to straighten it out when a sliver of yellow under the closet door hooked her attention. The lure was too great to ignore. She was powerless to initiate a retreat. Her feet glided and the next thing she knew, she was standing in the open closet. Beside the business mailer was an unlocked metal box that provoked Sharlene to give in to the temptation.

She lowered her standards and snooped through all of his personal papers.

“Oh, Uncle Moot.” A hand flew to her chest in accompaniment to the hollow intake of breath.

Shoving the papers back into the envelope, she ran from the room. A quick shower, light makeup application, and she hopped into the two-piece banker’s skirt set she brought along for another round of interviews in the city. All dressed up and smelling good, Sharlene stepped into her supple leather pumps, latched on to her shoulder satchel, and dashed to the front door.

All of a sudden, she screeched to a stop. Transportation. She had none to town. Not by land, anyway. A brief visit back inside for sneakers and off she raced to the waiting pirogue.

Soon, she cut the motor and paddled to the pier outside of Clyde’s once getting to town. The boat bobbed and weaved as she draped her jacket over her shoulder. The shoulder strap held it in place as she hiked up her skirt for the one-handed climb up the ladder. Although the going was rough, she managed to get to the landing without incident.

Sharlene hustled into the establishment, glad for the rush of cool air that greeted her.

“Sha,” the proprietor called out. “What brings ya here all gusset up?”

“The pirogue,” she supplied flippantly. Then, remorse set in. “I’m sorry, Mr. Clyde. That was uncalled for. I’m just hot, tired, and bothered.” She headed to the ladies’ room in a hurry.

Once refreshed and presentable, Sharlene made her appearance. “I need a taxi. Is there one in town?”

“No, Sha. But the local runs through here.”

“What time does it pass?”

“’Bout ten.”

She looked at her watch. It wasn’t quite nine-fifteen yet. “I’ll just have to wait.”

He moved from behind the counter at her distressed look. “Things okay?”

“Honestly, no.” His interest seemed sincere. Yet she dared not share her uncle’s predicament. “Something’s come up. I’ll run into the city and be back by the time Uncle Moot docks.”

“Well, you better get going. Got to catch it at the filling station.”

“The more things change, the more they stay the same, I guess.” Sharlene had to shake her head at the throwback to days gone by. She changed into her dress shoes. “See you later.”

Sharlene left the shop with a sense of urgency that had her at the ticket window and the only one in line to board the bus. She shifted her weight from hip to hip impatiently. Before long, the Greyhound pulled up to invite her onboard with open doors. There weren’t many riders. However, all eyes were on her as she scanned for just the right seat for the trip. The door closed, starting her on the journey of discovery.

A taxi ride after the bus and now she crossed the threshold of the banking institution holding Moot’s loan. She was immediately doused with the regrets. It took a little finagling to shove all of her private anxiety back into hiding. Her mind had to be clear for this meeting.

“I’d like to see the manager,” Sharlene requested once reaching the receptionist’s desk.

The younger woman answered, “I’m sure one of the representatives can help.”

Sharlene smiled sweetly and agreed. “I’m sure they could. But they’d end up referring me to the manger, anyway. So I’d like to cut to the chase.”

The receptionist gave in, made the call, and a stone-faced man materialized.

“May I help you?”

“Are you the branch manager?”

“I am.”

“My name is Sharlene Mouton. I’m here on behalf of my uncle.”

“Won’t you come this way, Miss Mouton?” He ushered her into his office behind a glass partition. “I’m Mr. Palmer. Won’t you have a seat?”

“Thank you for seeing me.” She sat to withdraw the envelope from her bag. “I believe you’re in violation of the law, Mr. Palmer.”

He reached for the extended papers. “I’m sure you’re mistaken, Ms. Mouton.”

“Mr. Palmer, I don’t have a lot of time. It took me two hours to get here. And I know your time is valuable.” She waited, watching as he scanned the pages. “Melvin Mouton’s livelihood was impacted by the Gulf oil spill. He made timely payments prior to that fiasco.”

He looked up but remained mute.

“I’m here to cover his past-due payments and request an extension.”

Walking around his desk, the banker responded, “The circumstances are unfortunate, Ms. Mouton. Lots of people are in the same shape as your uncle. We’re not in a position to give preferential treatment no matter how tempting.” He laid the notification on the desk in front of her.

“Take a closer look at the date.” He reclaimed the pages. “The new disclosure law went into effect before the issuance of this notice of default.” His grotesque expression said he realized he had a big problem. “What you’re holding in your hand borders on predatory lending practices, Mr. Palmer.”

“Miss Mouton, our bank didn’t create the problem—”