Pamela Morsi (34 page)

He'd tried to call upon her two years before
her father allowed her to sit Sundays with suitors. They had a
secret agreement to wed of which neither family was aware. And they
could hardly wait until her parents deemed her old enough to be a
bride.

Jean Baptiste recalled their wedding as an
after noon of absolute perfection. They danced and laughed and
looked deeply into each other's eyes. Happily ever after was not
merely a well-used phrase, but their reality.

The night that followed was equally blissful.
Both were total innocents, but they were much in love and
flawlessly in tune. There had been plenty of fumbling and a few
surprises, but there was no fear and a lot of giggling.

They discovered sex as if they had made it
all up from scratch. They learned by curiosity and practice how to
please themselves and pleasure their partner. And they discovered
how to make babies.

True love's road, however, strewn with
pregnancies, babies, and hard work, had turned out to be
surprisingly disappointing. Jean Baptiste still felt young, vital,
energetic. He wanted to laugh and be free and have fun. And
Felicite . . . well, his wife was somebody's mama.

Perhaps a love charm was exactly what they
needed to get them back to the place where they were still young
and sex was still fun. Jean Baptiste felt the longing for those
times well up in him both physically and emotionally.

He walked over to the corner of room near the
doorway and stood directly in front of her. She continued washing
the floor. Just before the damp rag was to wipe across his feet,
she stopped and looked up at him.

"Jean Baptiste, you'd best get out of the way
if I'm to finish cleaning this house tonight."

"T amie," he coaxed, using his pet name for
her, little friend. " T amie, I think that you are getting very
tired working here on the floor." He leaned down and took the rag
from her hand and gave her a long meaningful look. "Wouldn't you
like to go lie down in that nice warm bed with your cher
epoux."

He ran one finger lingeringly down the length
of her jaw and then traced the shape of her lower lip with his
thumb.

Felicite retrieved the damp cloth and sighed
heavily. "Please, Jean Baptiste, I am very busy."

She immediately recommenced her scrubbing and
her husband stared at her in disbelief. Hadn't Madame Landry
promised him something entirely different?

"I was just thinking about Armand and Aida
Gaudet," he said. "This is their wedding night."

"Yes, I suppose it is," she agreed.

"Do you remember our wedding night?" he
asked. "Do you remember how many times it was before we collapsed
in exhaustion?"

"No, not really," she answered. "At least we
were inside and warm. I doubt those two can say the same."

"You remember how it was," Jean Baptiste
teased. "A pair can make a lot of warmth together."

"I suppose so," she said.

"I know so. Now little friend," he continued,
coaxing. "Why don't we go warm ourselves?"

"Jean Baptiste, I am cleaning the house."

"All this dust and grime you're fighting
against will still be here tomorrow." He deliberately gave her what
she often referred to as his little-boy grin. She'd always found it
irresistible. "Come to bed with me, sweetheart, and maybe we can
stir up something real dirty in there."

"Not tonight," she said simply.

"Oh yes, yes, please tonight," Jean Baptiste
insisted, a whiny tone to his voice.

"No."

"Felicite—"

She sat back on her heels and regarded him
unfavorably. "Look at me!" she demanded. "I am nine months'
pregnant. I am as big as a cow and twice as clumsy."

He shrugged and spoke in a voice as smooth as
molasses. "To me you are beautiful, cherie."

She rolled her eyes and huffed in disbelief.
"Well, I don't feel beautiful," she said. "My back hurts, my legs
hurt, my feet hurt."

"What about your yum-yum?" he asked, his tone
playful, teasing. "You remember how your cher epoux loves your
yum-yum. Does your yum-yum hurt?"

"Jean Baptiste—"

"Maybe we can make it hurt. Remember when we
would play bon coucher?"

Felicite sighed tolerantly. "My yum-yum is
getting ready to bring another baby in the world. I know from past
experience that it will be hurting plenty for several weeks
thereafter."

"But that's a bad hurt," Jean Baptiste told
her. "I want to make it good hurt, like we used to, remember?"

"That was three, almost four, children
ago."

"But there are no children here now," he
said.

"Not tonight," she stated firmly.

He fought annoyance. Sex offered just about
the only pleasure that married life still afforded. But even that
had lost a good deal of its luster and was not nearly so available
as he had thought it would be when he'd wed.

"Come on, T, he pleaded. "Come on, T amie,
maybe I should tickle you. Would that do it? Do you want me to
tickle you?"

"No, please."

Jean Baptiste ignored her answer and squatted
down next to her with full intention of tickling her into
surrender.

A sickly feeling flashed over him, cold then
hot. Momentarily he ignored it, but when it sped through him again
the resulting weakness caused him to drop all the way into a
sitting position on the floor, momentarily faint.

"Please just leave me alone," his wife was
saying. "I haven't had time to really get these corners cleaned for
weeks. Having the children gone gives me a great opportunity to get
some things done around here. And I just really don't feel like
doing any sort of bed play with you tonight."

It was as if she were speaking to him from a
great distance. A very strange and very unpleasant nausea was
building up inside Jean Baptiste. He was never sick, never. The
children, from time to time, came down with all sorts of bilious
illnesses. And Felicite suffered nausea with every pregnancy. But
he was never bothered in any way by sick stomach. Yet he knew,
without question, that he was about to lose his supper.

"Oh God!" he exclaimed as he jumped to his
feet.

He just made it outside in time and lost his
dinner off the side of the porch. His retching was ferocious and
unceasing. A half-dozen tremendous heaves brought him down to his
knees. Still he felt no relief.

Exhausted he lay down on the porch boards,
allowing the cool cypress planks to soothe his fevered brow. He
was weak as a newborn kitten. His hands trembled.

What was happening to him? He had felt fine
only moments ago. This illness had taken him with sudden
tremendous force. Was it something spoiled in his dinner? It
couldn't have been; Felicite had fed the children the same before
they left. Besides he'd hardly eaten his supper, so anxious he had
been to consume the blueberry tart with the love charm.

The love charm? Could the love charm have
made him this sick?

Jean Baptiste had little time to consider the
possibility. The queasiness came over him again. This time he
could not run, or even walk, to the edge of the porch. He crawled
forward far enough to hang his head over the side and vomited.

After the upheaval, he rested. He wondered
why his wife had not come to his side. She always knew when he
needed her. She was always there for him. Felicite must not be
aware that he was ill, he decided.

He needed to get back into the house where
she could take care of him. He considered crawling, but after a few
deep breaths, he assured himself that he could stand on two feet
and make it inside. Once there, he was certain Felicite would care
for him.

He sighed with anticipation. She would put
him to bed, wash him with a cool rag, and make him feel better
again. Felicite would care for him.

He lurched uneasily to his feet and made his
way to the door. He pushed his way through the curtains and leaned
heavily upon the doorframe as he spoke.

"I'm sick," he said.

She didn't answer. He raised his eyes to look
at her. She was standing just where he'd left her. But the hem of
her dress was wet and soaked and there was a murky, red-streaked
stain on the floor that she'd just cleaned.

"Did you spill something?" he asked.

She looked up at him in stunned surprise and
answered, "My water broke."

"Oh, Armand, you are going to make the most
wonderful husband," Aida said with a sigh.

The two walked arm in arm together along the
darkened beach. "You make me want to try," he told her.

She looked into his eyes and knew he was
telling the truth. He might not love her, but he did want her, he
did believe in her.

"It's strange," she said thoughtfully, "that
of all the men on the river, you were the one who made me feel most
nervous, most unsure of myself. But now I am not afraid at
all."

"Good," he said, hugging her close to
him.

"I mean," she told him in a softer almost
conspiratorial tone, "that I'm not afraid of having a wedding
night with you."

They stopped walking and stood together. Aida
deliberately fitted herself as closely to him as she could. She saw
his eyes widen and he pulled away from her.

"Aida, you don't mean that," he said.

"Oh yes, I do mean it," she said. "I like
having you hold me in your arms. I like it a lot."

"Well there is no reason why I can't hold
you," he said, wrapping his arms more tightly around her.

"There is no reason that we can't do
more."

He chuckled, but there was little humor in
it. "No, my dear wife, no reason except that we have no bed, no
floor, not even a roof."

"Do you think Adam and Eve had a roof?"

"They at least had a garden."

She giggled and hugged him tightly. She
nuzzled against his hair and whispered into his ear. "I want to be
your wife."

She felt the shiver that skittered through
him.

"You are my wife," he stated.

"I want to be your wife in all ways."

"You will be. But we have no place to stay,
not even any place to lie. There will be other nights, my love,
many nights. We should wait until then."

"Why?"

"Because . . . because we should."

A niggling worry pursued her. She drew back
slightly to look him in the face. "Is it because you think it won't
be the same?" she asked.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"I mean that . . . that perhaps you think
that without the charm we won't . . . you won't want me."

"I won't want you!" He laughed. "Aida, I've
had no charm tonight and I want you now very much."

"You do?"

"Can you not feel it?"

"Feel what?

He pressed more tightly against her. "Feel
that?"

"Your leg?"

"Aida, that is not my leg." A strangled sound
escaped him. "Good Lord, Aida, don't touch it!"

"You don't want me to touch it?"

"Not now I don't."

"This morning, when you touched me . . ." She
lowered her eyes, momentarily shy. "When you touched me, I liked it
very much."

"God grant me strength," he whispered before
he covered her mouth with his own.

His mouth opened over hers and urged her lips
apart. He tasted hot and spicy, and the gentle pressure and
tugging drew her until she felt she was nearly inside him.

He relinquished the kiss and feathered tiny
pecks and bites along her jaw and neck. Aida arched her throat,
eagerly offering to him whatever territory he might wish to
explore.

"Oh Aida, I want you so much," he
whispered.

"I want you, too," she told him. "I want to
touch you."

His breathing was forced and labored as if
he'd been running down the beach instead of merely standing on it
with her in his arms. She found that her own heart was pounding
rapidly, pulses beating wildly in places she had never known she
had.

"Make love to me, Armand," she pleaded. "Make
love to me now."

"Not here, not now, my love."

"But I want you," she said.

"And I want you, too," he declared. "But it
must be a good thing between us, a wonderful thing. You deserve
that. You deserve a glowing candle and a warm bed and flowers."

"I don't want those things, Armand. I just
want you."

"And you will have me," he said. "But not
here, not now. That doesn't make any sense." -

"Waiting doesn't make any sense," she said.
"Look at Laron and Helga. They love each other, but they cannot be
together. What if something comes along to keep us apart as it has
them?"

"It's not likely."

"But it could happen. Why . . . why that old
skiff could turn over tomorrow and we might be eaten by
alligators."

"Aida—"

"Oh Armand, if I am to be eaten by alligators
tomorrow, I want to be made love to tonight."

"But—"

"Hold me," she pleaded. "Please hold me and
kiss me and touch me."

His better judgment had him hesitate one more
moment and then he brought his mouth to hers. "All right, my love,"
he said. "We'll touch each other. Touching is good. We can touch.
I'll touch you."

"Yes, yes, touch me, Armand."

He fumbled through the layers of the
shawl-draped blanket and covered her breast with his hand.

Aida arched her back, pressing herself more
firmly into his hand. He was caressing, kneading, weighing it. When
his thumb slid over the hard, erect tip it jolted her.

"Harder, squeeze it harder," she demanded.
"And the other one, too, Armand. Do it to the other one, too."

The blanket dropped behind her, forgotten, as
he used both hands to massage her bosom.

"Do you remember this morning?" she
whispered.

"This morning they were naked and you kissed
them and sucked them. Do you remember that?"

"Aida, do you think I could ever forget
it?"