The Vigil Page 2

  While I zipped into the parking lot of Marvin’s IGA, I made a mental list of the items I needed for dinner.

  Leaning on the grocery cart for support, I scanned the aisles. The day’s events had sucked the last vestiges of my energy, more so than I’d realized. Seemed encroaching death had a way of doing that. I craved nothing more than to hurry home to a hot bath.

  I picked up a bag of salad and examined the leaves for freshness.

  “Cheryl? Is that you?”

  That voice. The one that filled my heart during my younger years tickled my ears.

  He stood amidst a backdrop of fresh pineapples and mandarins, wearing navy slacks with a light blue oxford shirt, his paisley tie loosened and the first button opened.

  A little paunchier than I remembered with his dark hair, shorter and thinner, but the dark electrifying eyes remained. And now, they beamed on me and zapped a hole right through me. Just like before. Just like I remembered. Just like I’d once loved.

  “Beau...hello.” I kept my hands firmly planted on the plastic bag and prayed he wouldn’t extend his. I couldn’t touch his skin. Not with my clammy hands. Not ever. Heaven only knew what would happen to me if we touched. “How are you?”

  He hesitated as though measuring his words before he spoke. “I-I-I’m good.”

  Beau, the man I decided at seventeen was the love of my life stood before me, and now thirteen years later, I couldn’t think of anything to say to him. He’d stayed in Bijou Bayou, married my friend, Annie Melancon, and last I’d heard, had a son.

  “How’s your family?” I reverted to the typical Louisiana questions.

  He fingered the plastic flap of the cart’s seat. “We’re managing. You know Mama passed away last year. She and Daddy are finally together. Got a son, Steven, he’s ten and growing up into a fine young man. And Annie…is still holding on.”

  Holding on? What kind of response was that?

  I paused. I’m sure confusion painted my face.

  “You haven’t heard?” He leaned onto the handle of the shopping cart.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Annie was in a car accident two years ago. She’s in a long term care facility in Lafayette.” He squeezed his lips together and blinked a few times. “In a coma.”

  “Oh.” I dropped the salad bag into my cart and paused, unable to find words. I ached for him and his son. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “You wouldn’t have.”

  “Any chance…?” I asked.

  He shook his head, gazed at me, and then into his cart. The package of crawfish boudin sitting on top became the object of his focus. I hated that my question had initiated such a response. There had been nothing Beau Battice and I hadn’t talked about and dreamed about. Now we stood in IGA with enough baggage between us to keep a therapist busy for years. And the worst part, we didn’t have anything to say to each other.

  I wanted to say the right words to take his pain away, to make up for the pain I’d caused him. He didn’t deserve this hand dealt him.

  He was a good man—the kind who would be your best friend as well as your husband. A man who’d bring you breakfast in bed and know exactly how to fix your coffee. The kind who would never strike a woman.

  He looked up, his eyes drooping at the corners. “I heard you were back in town.”

  “Yes. Been back a couple of weeks.” Seeing him stung like stepping on a box of thumbtacks. Each time our eyes met, a prick shot directly into my heart. His gentle eyes reminded me of the biggest mistake of my life. I couldn’t look at him for any length of time for fear that he would see through my eyes and straight into my soul.

  His lips twitched into a half smile and a touch of mischief twinkled in his eyes. “How does it feel to be back in…let’s see…” He pointed his finger in the air, or was it at the carefully stacked mound of cantaloupes? “…Podunk Bayou Dullsville? I believe that’s what you called it.”

  Ouch, who said words couldn’t hurt? Although I knew he was kidding, his words stung like a poison dart into my chest, real enough to take my breath away. I met the compassion in his warm eyes and smiled as best I could through the pain. I deserved this. And more. “Touché.”

  He grinned—the sweet grin that had melted my heart more times than I could count. Today was no different. “Sorry, Te’, I couldn’t resist. You look good. I like the shorter haircut.”

  Double ouch. The nickname I’d not heard since I’d left seared a path through my heart. My lips curled despite the bittersweet emotion. The nickname stirred something long dead and brought back the familiar stirrings of youth, eternal hope, and invincibility. Funny he should comment on my hair. He’d loved my long curly locks.

  “You’re forgiven.”

  He shuffled toward the Red Delicious apples. “Well, I guess I’d better get going. Steven has a baseball game tonight. Playing at Toucoin’s Park. You should come out sometime.”

  Dare I ever set foot at Toucoin’s Park again? “Maybe.”

  “It’s been good seeing you.” He patted my shoulder with an awkward tap.

  “Same here.” Dare I return his touch? It had been good to see him, more than he would know. But I hoped I wouldn’t run into him again. Seeing him brought back a rush of emotions I’d spent years running from. Could he easily capture my heart again if things were different? Who knew? But they weren’t. I ran from a past of shame and fear while he was committed to a wife who could never love him or watch her son play baseball at Toucoin’s Park. I saw no reason to flirt with the danger that seeing him again would bring. Especially seeing him at Toucoin’s Park.

  Trois

  “Well, hello, Mister Bojangles.” My new friend ran circles at my feet. The fifteen-pound Schnauzer barked his delight that I’d returned to bow to his every wish. I led him toward the laundry room and his leash.

  I loved coming to my home here in Bijou Bayou. I’d grown to hate going home to the apartment in Houston. There I knew Jarrod would either be calling or coming by soon. At first, I welcomed his presence, but then my blood ran cold at the thought of a visit or call from him. Why had I not seen the selfish, insecure man he was from the very beginning?

  “Cheryl, are you home?” My grandma’s scratchy voice filtered through the screened door behind me.

  “Hello, Mawmaw.” I attached the leash to Mister Bojangles and led him through the screened door. “Are you out for your afternoon walk?” I’d rented the shotgun style house two blocks north of Mawmaw’s and enjoyed her daily visits.

  “I am. It’s finally cooled down a bit, and I need all the exercise I can get. These old bones get awfully tired sitting around. Care to come over for suppa? I made stuffed crabs and black eye peas.”

  My stomach growled in response, but I was determined to shed a few pounds and resigned myself to the salad I’d picked up at the IGA. “I’ll pass this time.”

  “What’s wrong?” She cocked her head to the side. “Is it that no-good ex-boyfriend?”

  I shook my head. “No. I haven’t heard from him.” Mr. Bojangles tugged on the leash.

  “Had a bad day with your patient today?”

  I led my pooch off the porch and into the front yard. “No, it was better than usual. He actually smiled today.”

  Mawmaw stood at the porch railing. “Sure wish you’d tell me who he is.”

  “Sorry, you know the rules. I can’t tell.”

  “I know. I know. Privacy thing and all that malarkey.” She flapped her hand in her unique way of dismissing anything she didn’t like.

  I heard this same thing from my mama a few days ago. Both my mother and grandmother were curious to know the identity of my new patient. I’m still amazed that in such a small town as Bijou Bayou, they hadn’t heard. But then again, Mr. Perlouix did live in a neighboring town and from what I gathered from Darcy, he’d only been back a few months. I never imagined thirty miles could help keep his privacy.

  My short gray-haired-ball-of-fire grandma walked down the steps toward
me. Her face contorted into an overabundance of creases. She placed her soft, wrinkled hand on my arm. “Be strong, Cheryl. Don’t let a man lay a hand on you again, OK? Understand? Never.” She squeezed my arm.

  I nodded and followed her attention to a spot on the yard where the grass was a lighter circle of green, thanks to Mr. Bojangles.

  A warm breeze blew through the oaks towering above us sending my hair in crazy directions while my grandmother’s words sent my thoughts aflutter. Had my grandfather hurt my grandmother?

  “Mawmaw, did PawPaw…” I couldn’t bring myself to ask. I had such fond and wonderful memories of PawPaw that I’d be crushed to know he’d been anything but the kind, sensitive man I knew him to be.

  She continued to stare at the yard for a moment longer and then shook her head and waved as though the somber exchange had not taken place. “No. No. Your PawPaw was a wonderful man. He never raised his hand or his voice in all the years we were married, he was nothing but good to me and the girls. After the Lord made him, I believe He broke the mold.” Her lips spread as she patted my arm once again. “If you change your mind about suppa, come on over.”

  “Will do.” I contemplated her words as she went through the thick St. Augustine grass. Would I ever be in such a long-lasting and committed relationship as Mawmaw?

  ****

  “Mornin’.” Carlton sat up in bed and smiled as I entered his bedroom.

  “Good morning. You seem chipper this morning. How was your night?” I placed my bag at the foot of his bed.

  “‘Bout the same...restless.”

  “I’m sorry. I brought some books. Would you like me to read to you?” I held several westerns I’d gathered from the library.

  After a while, he nodded and then pointed to an antique dresser in the corner of the room. Bare wood peeked through the edges where the dark stain had worn off. “Top drawer.”

  I dropped the books onto the chair and walked to the dresser. When I turned back to Carlton, he pointed. “Open it.”

  I pried the drawer and peered inside. The tender scent of lavender drifted out and captured my senses. Letters filled the space. Bundles of letters. All addressed to him with the return address a post office box in Bijou Bayou.

  “You want me to read these to you?” I turned back to face him.

  He nodded.

  Something new he’d asked for. Another first. I lifted a bundle wrapped by a long strand of twine. A deeper scent of lavender wafted from the letters.

  “They’re in order.” He took a deep breath. “Top right corner.”

  Faded blue ink marked the number two next to the postmark. A quick search through the drawer produced the number one bundle.

  “Would you like anything to eat before we get started?”

  He shook his head. “Just water.”

  I filled his glass and my own. After returning the westerns to my bag, I settled in the chair facing his bed.

  With a firm tug, the twine fell apart releasing the letters. Aged paper crinkled as I opened the first envelope and removed the precious letter.

  Carlton’s eyes darkened and his labored breathing paused, causing a rise in my heartbeat. He stared at my hands. Only when I unfolded the letter did his raspy breathing resume. The words were written in black ink, faded on sepia paper. Broad, elegant strokes filled the entire page. I cleared my throat and began.

  Dear Carlton,

  It’s only been two days since you’ve left but it feels like years. This bottomless void grows each hour that you’re apart from me. I’m not sure I’ll survive this tour. I miss you so much it hurts. Mama said it would fade as time went on, but I don’t see that happening. Of course, what would she know about true love?

  I hope you are well. Maybe you’re settled and won’t see too much action. I can’t bear the thought of something happening to you.

  The weather here has been unusually cool. For October that is. If you can imagine we’re finally getting some cool weather especially after this summer. I’m holding on to the memory of our day at the water hole. I hope that day was as special to you as it was to me.

  I have a candle burning in church for you. Please come back to me. I will be waiting here and praying for you. Write soon.

  All my love,

  Your Lady S

  Carlton’s gaze was fixed on the edge of the bed where I’d folded a multi-colored, crocheted afghan.

  Was he thinking of the day at the watering hole? I imagined a younger Carlton, handsome and romping through the water with a laughing young girl—one with eyes only for Carlton and his eyes only for her. I folded the letter, careful to duplicate the original creases, slipped it back into the envelope, and returned it to the stack on the nightstand. A quick glance toward the bed revealed an engrossed Carlton still staring at the colorful blanket.

  I slipped from the room leaving him alone with his memory. When I stepped onto the peeling paint and raw-wood boards of the front porch, the warm humid air engulfed while guilt riddled through me. A weathered wooden swing hung from chains attached to the rafters. I tested its strength and then sat. A gentle push sent the swing swaying. I glided back and forth and thought about the letter. I didn’t belong in the middle of something so personal.

  The letter opened a portal to images of Carlton I’d only suspected existed. But now the letter piqued my curiosity. Who was Lady S, and what had happened to their love? Was she Sherri?

  I returned to the room to find Carlton asleep, his brows relaxed and his breathing, while still labored, didn’t have the same desperate tone as before. I stared at the stack of letters. What answers did those letters contain? I gently tied the envelopes into a tidy bundle and replaced them in the top drawer of the dresser. If Carlton wanted more letters read, then I would happily oblige. Otherwise, his secrets would remain just that—his.

  Quatre

  I turned into the gravel driveway of my mother’s house. The house sat on piers nestled among large oaks, magnolias, and dogwoods. A screened porch circled the front, sides, and back of the house. Maybe it would be cool enough to have dinner on the back porch. The setting sun would be nice this time of day castings its reflection on Bijou Bayou.

  I climbed the fifteen steps to the screened door of the porch. A conversation group of brown wicker furniture decorated with lime green and blue flowered cushions filled most of the porch while potted plants crammed the remaining space. Vivian Clement Broussard did have a flare for decorating.

  “Mother, I’m here.” When I entered her house, the tantalizing aroma of sautéing onions and browning flour sparked the hunger I’d held at bay for most of the day. After reading the letter and seeing Carlton’s reaction, I’d skipped lunch. The fragrance sent me back to grade school and coming home to the tantalizing aroma of her Cajun cooking.

  “I’m in the kitchen.” Vivian’s voice drifted down the hallway.

  Once I made my way to the large country kitchen, there she stood in all her glory doing what she did best—cooking. Steam from a large iron pot floated toward the exposed beams of her ceiling and curled the small strands of bleached-blonde hair around her temples. Today she wore a purple blouse over dark jeans. Her violet-blue eyes and curling hair reminded me of my brother, Anthony. He’d inherited the blond hair, beautiful-eyed genes, while I had my father’s brown eyes and hair.

  “Hi, sugah. How was your day?”

  “Good.” I slid my purse off my shoulder and onto her large antique table. She liked the distressed look. This table looked like it had been beat with an anchor chain and then left in a barn for fifty years. Six chairs, of different form and color surrounded the table. She also liked the eclectic look.

  She pointed to the pots on her stove. “I’ve got all your favorites here.”

  The woman loved to cook, but mostly she loved to watch people eat the mountains of food she prepared. It was her greatest joy.

  She smiled. “I’m so glad you’re havin’ suppa with us.”

  The first hour Mama and I spent to
gether usually fared well. After that, neither of us could predict how things would go. Even though we had the same blood, we were like a Southern woman wearing a pastel dress and white shoes after Labor Day. We clashed.

  “Thanks for inviting me.” I slid onto the bar stool at the center island where the gas stovetop held cast iron pots in bright red, purple, and aqua. Each spouted steam trails toward the twelve-foot ceiling. I curled my hair behind my ears and then leaned over the bar and sniffed. “My favorites, huh?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Shrimp okra gumbo and fresh green beans with salt pork.” My mother wiped the counter around the stovetop, and then glanced at an index card on the counter.

  Wow. I braced myself. She never cooked my favorite dishes unless she wanted something. I knew better than to say anything, yet.

  “Thanks.”

  “I met Beau at the post office yesterday.” She peered over the top of her cat-eye reading glasses. “He told me he saw you.”

  This was why I left Bijou Bayou in the first place. This place was too small to keep my business my own. “Yes.”

  “Did he tell you about his wife?”

  “He did.” I leaned back into the barstool.

  “Well?”

  “Well, what?”

  Her fisted hands flew to her hips. “Are you planning to talk to him again?”

  “I’m sure if I run into him, we’ll have a conversation, but if you’re asking if I’ve made plans to see him again, the answer is no. He’s married.”

  “I know he’s married.” She huffed and then lifted the heavy cover from the large, bright red pot, the one that held the gumbo, and stirred. She continued to stir, never looking up at me. “I just thought that maybe you two could become friends again. He could use a friend, you know.”

  “I doubt it. Besides that’s not a good idea. There’s a lot of water under that bridge.”