Bayou My Love: A Novel Read Online Free Page A

and wiggled her haunches. Jack pointed a
finger at her, and she stopped. “Come on, cher,” he said. “I don’t want any
trouble. But I don’t want to be out of a home, either.”
    “Look,
this isn’t personal. This is running a business.”
    He
stood then, rising a head higher than me. “This is not what your grandmother
would want,” he said calmly.
    I
climbed to the top step to look him in the eye again. “How would you know what
she’d want?” I leaned closer. “How dare you.”
    “Because
she was thoughtful and considerate,” he said, standing so close I could see
those stupid green flecks in his eyes, “and she wouldn’t kick a man out into
the cold.”
    “I
don’t think you have to worry about the cold around here.”
    He
leaned against the banister. “I signed a lease, you know. I’m supposed to have
a few months left.”
    “There’s
a loophole for death of the landlord. Those are standard.” I glared at him
until he finally looked away.
    He
paced across the porch. His broad shoulders drooped as he shoved his hands in
his pockets. I felt bad for the guy, but there wasn’t an easy way out of this.
As Jack Mayronne scratched his stubbly chin, he reminded me of the last man I
fell in love with. He used to scratch his chin like that when he was deep in
thought. I could still feel the roughness of his cheek against my skin. The
thought made me shiver.
    I
shoved the thought away. Right now I needed to focus on fixing this house and
proving my father was wrong about me. You’ve got no follow-through, Enza, he
liked to say all too often. I told myself that was just boredom—if I could
finish projects fast enough, then I wouldn’t push details aside. Even though
Dad was a big-picture man, he loved zooming in on the details and using them to
point out my weaknesses.
    I
hated him for that, but I feared he might be right. Fixing this house, though,
would prove I wasn’t as weak-willed as he liked to think. That would be one
delicious moment.
    But
first I had to get rid of this man who seemed as rooted here as the cypress in
the backyard.
    “Surely
we can come to some kind of agreement,” he said.
    “Yes.
You can leave as soon as possible.”
    “How
long will it take you to fix this place up like you want it?”
    I
studied the peeling paint, the hedges that were overtaking the rails. “What
difference does that make?”
    “Come
on. Humor me.”
    “I
couldn’t say without seeing the inside.”
    “So
let’s take a tour.” He pushed the front door open and motioned for me to go in.
The dog raced through ahead of us.
    Before
I could argue, he led me inside by the elbow. He could easily bash me over the
head, but if I wanted to see the house, my options were limited. This seemed to
be the only peaceful way. And I felt it would be a mistake to get him angry.
People often get defensive about their homes, and I needed to stay on Jack
Mayronne’s good side.
    “How
about you let me stay—just while you fix things up,” he said. “That should give
me enough time to find another place.”
    I
barely heard him as we walked down the hallway into the kitchen. I saw myself
at twelve years old, sitting at the table playing checkers with Vergie, both of
us wearing frilly old dresses, sipping imaginary mint juleps and fanning
ourselves with antique lace fans. The room was plainer now, with straight lace
sheers over the windows. But the old table and chairs remained.
    “Most
of her stuff is still here,” he said. “She rented it furnished, and I travel
light.”
    I
felt a pang of guilt. How could I not know she was living some place other than
her home?
    “So
you’re Martine’s daughter, then?” he asked.
    I
stopped. “How do you know my mother?”
    He
turned toward me, biting his lip like he wished he could take those words back,
then said, “Just from Vergie talking about her sometimes.”
    The
thought of him knowing about my mother left me dumbstruck. I followed him
through the house in a trance,