Luc was annoyed with René for involving them in another of his shenanigans, but Remy was really pissed off. With good reason.
Luc was wearing his usual lawyer’s suit, though his shirt was unbuttoned down practically to the navel, and there was a fake earring in one ear, while Remy was wearing tight jeans with cowboy boots and hat and a leather vest, sans shirt. Even Luc thought his brother looked sexy, and he was a guy…a heterosexual guy…though you wouldn’t know it by the lack of women in his life.
René was wearing jeans, boots, and an accordion. That was all, except for the tattoo on his right shoulder that resembled an ink splotch but was probably a shrimp. Joining them in this madness were a few Cajun pals of René’s: a fireman who no doubt looked spiffy to some people in his suspenders and plastic pants and boots, not to mention helmet; a second-team football player from the New Orleans Saints, who appeared to have no underwear on under his uniform; and Luc’s old pal, Ambrose “Rosie” Mouton, in his cop outfit. Rosie seemed as uncomfortable as he did. Though he wasn’t showing any skin, his boss might fire him over this misuse of official apparel.
Needless to say, they were going to be the Village People of Southern Louisiana. To the music of “Macho Man,” they would be singing, “Ca-jun, Ca-jun man. I want to be a Ca-jun man.”
If his heart wasn’t broken and his brain in temporary meltdown over Sylvie, Luc never would have agreed to this insanity. He had put his pride in his pocket two weeks ago when he’d gone to Sylvie’s home, but she’d pretty much told him to take a hike. He’d kept expecting her to change her mind, but no such luck. Each day that went by saw his dreams being chipped away bit by bit, till they were practically nonexistent now.
Everyone kept telling him not to give up hope, especially Tante Lulu, who was going overboard on the St. Jude stuff this week. He was almost afraid to look up at the sky for fear of seeing a Goodyear Blimp in the shape of St. Jude. Charmaine had even told him she’d heard a rumor that Tante Lulu had the ladies’ auxiliary at Our Lady of the Bayou Church making a novena for him. Imagine that! A love novena.
It had been a foolish fantasy to begin with, he supposed. The Cajun bad boy and the Creole princess. An impossible mix.
But, God, it had been sweet while it lasted.
“It’s all for a good cause,” René was protesting for the zillionth time, calling Luc back to the present. He was still trying to justify the madness he’d conned them into.
“How come we couldn’t make a hundred-dollar donation like everyone else?” the fireman griped. “And I’m not having sex with a pole, either, René, so just forget it.”
“Mon Dieu! I never heard so much complaining in all my life. Those Cajun dockworkers from Morgan City are gonna be the Cajun-dales. You know, like the Chippindales. And all they’ll be wearing are G-strings made of shrimp shells. They have no qualms about dancing with firemen’s poles.”
The jaws of a lawyer, cowboy, fireman, football player, and cop dropped open at that. You never knew for sure when René was kidding.
The only saving grace for Luc was knowing that Sylvie wouldn’t see him like this. She’d never be caught dead at such a low-down, rowdy affair.
But, damn, he’d like to see her one more time.
Their Cajun version of the Village People was an overwhelming hit. The stage was spotlighted, but they could see out into the neon-lit darkness where people were standing and clapping and singing along and letting loose wild rebel yells.
All of them on stage got a little caught up in the magic, and, yes, they did swing their hips a bit. Hey, they were Cajuns, after all; there was music in their souls. Even the stoic Remy had the women drooling when he did an ever-so-subtle roll of the hips during one of their syncopated turns, like those old Motown groups…or like, well, the Village People. Rosie did this thing with his baton that was…well, there were no words for it. The crowd loved it, though. Every time the fireman snapped his suspenders, the young girls in the crowd practically fainted. When the football player shook his bootie at them, catcalls and wolf whistles filled the arena.
All Luc did was dance a little, and once he flashed the edge of his Valentine boxers, for which he’d developed a fondness. That seemed to satisfy the mob, though some women kept veiling at him to “Take it off! Take it all off!”
Then Luc saw Sylvie sitting in the front row, wide-eyed and slack-jawed with amazement. Good thing it was the end of their song. He did the only thing he could think of. He winked at her.
And bless her heart, she winked right back.
Was it a sign?
Luc would have jumped right off the stage to find out, but Remy and René grabbed him by the forearms and pulled him back. As they exited the stage area, the crowd was going wild.
“They want us to do an encore,” René announced enthusiastically.
All the rest of them gave René a look that pretty well translated to “Get a Life!” and scooted off before he could talk them into something they might regret.
It was almost impossible for Luc to make his way through the tightly packed crowd to the front-row area where he’d seen Sylvie. Instead, he found himself drawn along with Remy and René toward a beer stand off to the side.
Along the way, they got lots of pats on the backs and more than a few propositions from the ladies. Some of them even brought a blush to his face.
Remy swore one woman pinched his butt. And he liked it.
The band was warming up for the next act, and through the fuzziness in Luc’s brain—he was still feeling euphoric over Sylvie’s wink—he began to register an increasingly worrisome fact. It sounded as if the band was about to play that old rock ’n’ roll song “Love Potion Number Nine.”
He almost dropped his beer.
He glanced at his brothers, who were suddenly grinning. He glanced at the stage, where four women had just come out wearing dark sunglasses and raincoats that covered them from neck to stiletto-heeled feet. Then he glanced at his aunt, whom he’d just noticed behind the bar wearing a sarong, a lei, and a black pageboy wig. God knows what kind of vehicle she had now…probably a boat. She waggled a St. Jude medal at him and smiled encouragingly.
But he couldn’t think about that now. To the beat of the rock music, the women in raincoats strutted up to the four microphones planted along the front of the stage. With orchestrated panache, they flipped their sunglasses off and into the audience, then removed their raincoats, tossing them back and out of the way.
“Oh, my God!” he and Remy and René all said at once.
Sylvie, Blanche, Claudia, and Charmaine were wearing short-sleeved spandex dresses with rounded necklines that dipped practically to their butts in the back. They were so short they should have been outlawed. The colors were flame-red, pink, black, and white, with matching high-heeled shoes. About four miles of black silk stockings were displayed, ending in those sexysexysexy shoes…the kind of shoes that prompted a man to picture his woman wearing them, and nothing else.
Sylvie was the one in flame-red…which brought to mind something else she’d worn for him in flame-red. A nightie. Had she worn this red dress deliberately for him? Was it a message? Nah, he was dreaming again. Aside from the hooker dress, he noticed that her hair was a little…poufy. He recognized Charmaine’s work. Most of all, he noticed that Sylvie looked scared as hell.
Why is she doing this?
Sylvie was a Creole chemist with no real ties to the Cajun community.
Sylvie was too high-class to wear such low-class clothes, especially in public, even for a good cause.
Sylvie was too mad to go anywhere near where he might be.
Sylvie was too shy to put herself on exhibition.
Why is she doing this?
With a crash of cymbals and roll of drums, the band ended their rendition of “Love Potion Number Nine,” which the Happy Hookers had been singing while his mind had been wandering.
The stage darkened, except for a spotlight on Sylvie. Charmaine, Claudia, and Blanche stepped bac
k a bit and took on the role of backup singers. Then Sylvie held onto the standing mike for dear life and began to sing that old torchy rock ’n’ roll song “Do You Wanna Dance?”
She’s singing to me, was the first thing Luc realized.
Dropping his beer to the ground, he began to make his way doggedly through the crowd and toward her. Her voice was quivery and her legs unsteady as she poured out her heart in a surprisingly clear and poignantly pleasant wail, “Oh, baby, do you wanna dance?” And the whole time she sang, she danced in place, her hips and shoulders swaying from side to side, her arms outstretched in a beckoning manner.
She’s dancing for me, was the second thing he realized.
From the time they were kids, Luc had been teasing Sylvie about how someday she would dance with him. Well, she was sure as hell doing it now, except that she was dancing for him. With tears in her eyes and her heart in her wavering voice, she was making a monumental effort—monumental, for a timid, publicity-shy person like Sylvie—to prove something to him.
She loves me, was the third thing Luc realized, and it hit him square in the heart.
Now, she was exhorting her “baby” to squeeze her all night long, followed by the refrain “Oh, baby, do you wanna dance?”
He’d almost reached the stage after shoving aside two security guards, who were probably calling for backups. He saw the moment that Sylvie saw him. Her eyes went wide with pleading and her arms, which would appear beckoning in a sexual way to the audience, were clearly beckoning him to rescue her before she had one of her anxiety attacks in front of five hundred people.
He wanted to whack Charmaine and Claudia and Blanche on their heads. They’d probably talked Sylvie into doing this, not realizing she wasn’t up to this kind of exposure.
But, God, he loved Sylvie for doing it.
With hands braced on the edge of the stage, he vaulted himself up and rushed to Sylvie’s side.
“Dance, dance, dance,” the crowd shouted, misinterpreting his actions as those of a lover coming to join Sylvie in her act…a rehearsed culmination to the stage show.
He did just that, but only as a means to dance her off the stage. Pulling her into his embrace, he whispered against her ear, “Hold on, babe. Everything’s gonna be okay now.”
She pulled away slightly, even as they danced slowly toward the back of the stage while the three Dunce-ettes shoobee-doo’d the lyrics. Gazing up at him, Sylvie smiled and said, “I did it, Luc. I actually got up on a stage and sang. I guess that proves something, huh?” Her voice was choked with pride and emotion and a vulnerability that tugged at his heartstrings.
“You did great, darlin’. But why?”
She said something, but he couldn’t hear over the clapping of the excited crowd and the continued harmonizing of the Dunce-ettes.
“What?” He leaned closer. In her killer high heels, Sylvie was almost eye-level with him, and now that he thought about it, their body parts were perfectly aligned. That, of course, gave him ideas for later.
“I did it to prove to you that I wasn’t pitiful.”
“Huh?” he exclaimed, and whisked Sylvie through the stage curtains and down the back steps.
The Dunce-ettes doo-whopped on without them, “Do you do you do you…oh, baaaby!”
Luc pulled Sylvie close to his side and walked her toward the trees, away from the people who hung around in clusters, even behind the stage. Once she was leaning back against the wide tree trunk, she wilted.
God, he wanted answers to so many things, but more than anything he wanted to take Sylvie into his arms and kiss her and kiss her and kiss her till no questions and no answers were necessary. Then, he’d like to kiss her some more.
“Why are you smiling?” Sylvie asked. Now she was calmed down somewhat. God, I can’t believe I actually got up on that stage and sang. And danced. Lordy, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to regress into shyness again. Then she began to notice her surroundings. Had Luc really “rescued” her like that? My very own Cajun Knight!
“You’re smiling, too, babe,” he said in a husky voice that did wonderful, fluttery things to the pit of her stomach.
“I’m happy,” she whispered.
“Me, too,” he whispered back.
For now, that was enough. No explanations necessary.
“Do you want to tell me what you mean about proving you weren’t pitiful?” Luc asked then.
“The last time I saw you, you told me I was pitiful, and—”
He gasped. “I said that?”
She nodded. “You did, and you were right. I wasn’t willing to take a chance on you. It was easier to fall back on old preconceived ideas. I couldn’t trust you on your word alone.”
“And now?”
“Now, nothing seems to matter except…” Her voice trailed off, and she averted her face.
“Oh, God, Sylv, don’t stop now,” he pleaded, cupping her chin and tilting her face back.
“I love you,” she said. Finally, finally, finally, she spoke the words, and it was as if a heavy load was lifted from her heart. She felt light as a feather and happier than she’d ever been in all her life.
Instead of telling her that he loved her, too, Luc slipped a fingertip under the shoulder of her dress and gave it a little ping. “Nice color, Sylv,” he commented. “Any particular significance to your picking flame-red?”
She lifted her chin and refused to answer. If he was going to tease her, she refused to be a willing participant.
“I especially like the elasticity of this dress,” he noted, putting his palm on her buttocks and rubbing up and down, causing the hem to be hiked dangerously high. She felt the shock of electricity from that seductive move of his fingers. “What are you wearing under it, anyhow?”
Aaah! Perfect setup! “Nothing.”
She saw him gulp.
“Wanna see?” She winked at him.
He laughed. “Man, oh, man! Put a shy thing in a tart dress and who knows what will happen!”
Sylvie had had enough of games and teasing. “I’m sorry, Luc. I really am.”
“Me, too.” He leaned his mouth close to hers and spoke against her parted lips. “I love you, chère.”
She whimpered at the ferocity of his kisses then. He couldn’t seem to get enough of her. Sylvie wanted his kisses, but she wanted to hear the words, too. Cradling his face in her hands, she held him away from her. “I love you so much,” she said.
“I know,” he said.
She shoved him in the chest. He knew what she wanted to hear—the louse!—but continued to tease her. As always.
Finally, he gave in. “I have loved you for such a long time, Sylv. I loved you when we were kids. I love you now. I will love you forever.”
More beautiful words were never spoken.
They kissed and said the words a few hundred more times. Then Luc gazed at her through adoring eyes and asked something she hadn’t expected. “Do you wanna dance?”
“Here?” she asked in surprise.
“No, not here,” he responded. “Back at my apartment. I have a different kind of dancing in mind.”
He looked at her and grinned.
She looked at him and grinned.
And they both said at the same time, “Nude dancing.”
Epilogue
Two months later…
The Breaux plantation in Houma, Louisiana, rang with the sounds of rowdy Cajun music and soft Creole ballads. It was the wedding of Lucien Michael LeDeux and Sylvie Marie Fontaine.
Father Phillipe had performed the ceremony down at Our Lady of the Bayou Church, and the reception was being held outdoors at the home of Sylvie’s mother, for appearance’s sake—her mother’s, not Sylvie’s.
The catering tables groaned with myriad delicacies from both the Cajun and Creole cultures. At the bar, specialties of the day were oyster shooters and “pink” zinfandel…and beer, of course…lots of beer.
Remy was his brother’s best man, and the ushers were René and Tee-Joh
n. Blanche was the maid of honor, with Claudia and Charmaine acting as bridesmaids, all in the Dunce-ettes’ spandex dresses, for sentimental reasons, much to Inez Breaux-Fontaine’s disapproval. Sylvie figured her mother was lucky she hadn’t chosen flame-red for her bridal gown, instead of virginal-white. And besides, the bridesmaids’ dresses had detachable net overgowns made up for the sake of respectability in the church.
Even Valcour LeDeux and his wife Jolie attended the festivities, though they were treated with marked coolness by his sons. The rift between them was still wide.
Tante Lulu was looking proud of herself in a pink suit and pumps and soft gray hair. Apparently, normal attire was to be her standard now that she’d gotten Luc married off. Maybe she had finally “found herself,” even as she’d found a bride for Luc. On the other hand, there was a hint of problems to come when she called Remy over and inquired sweetly, “How’s your hope chest, honey?”
Sylvie intended to return to work on her love-potion research at Terrebonne Pharmaceuticals after a short honeymoon at Luc’s bayou cabin. In fact, each place setting at the reception had a little paper cup of jelly beans. There were lots of jokes about being under the influence.
Luc had more legal business than he could handle these days because of the publicity over Cypress Oil and the love potion. He was trying his best not to turn too respectable at the command of his new wife. In line with that, he had added a line to the brass plate on his law office door which now read, “Lucien LeDeux, Attorney-at-Law, The Swamp Solicitor.”
Samson and Delilah were back together again, boinking away. Delilah had dropped four baby rats the month before. Their names were Eenie, Meanie, Miney, and Moe.
Reporters still continued to hound Luc and Sylvie, refusing to believe there was no love potion. In fact, today’s newspaper read: “Love Potion Wedding.”
The day was winding down now, and the bridal couple was dancing again…this time to a tune that was becoming popular with many Louisiana radio stations, “Cajun Knight.”
“Shall we leave soon, chère?” Luc drawled, nuzzling her neck. His bride was known to have a soft spot for his drawl. “I can’t wait for you to try on my wedding gift.” Luc had given her several sexy lingerie items with matching high heels, all in flame-red, of course.