Southern Hearts (5 page)

“She is never in my way, honey, don’t you worry. You two go and have fun.”

“Floral shops, rental companies, and caterers. Yippee!” I exclaimed, clapping my hands wildly.

The roads were damp from a spurt of rain that had drifted across the area as daylight dawned. The air was hot and the wind was dull and almost nonexistent as we drove through the various back roads toward Lafayette. As we drove, I couldn’t help but feel comforted by the sporadic glimpses of the bayou between the planted brush.

Tami talked about Bradley and Megan, interweaving the bad points with the good and changing her tone from anger to pleasure as she spoke. I listened with a receptive ear, grinning and adding a few words of encouragement, smiling largely at the joys of Megan as she recalled them. I was interested, though my mind wondered at points as I stared out the car window and thought of my own life. It was simpler than my sister’s; I had an impressive collection of friends in Seattle, and by most accounts, little to complain about.

As Tami talked, my insides began to tremble. I had already come out at least partially. I had been on a few dates, done the rounds at the local gay bars, played pool and done my best to fit into the culture. But when it had come time to actually be with a woman, it hadn’t happened. My sister’s life with Bradley had been plagued by disappointment, but I had missed the experience of snuggling into a warm embrace and having someone look at me in a way that was reserved only for me. In a small way I was jealous of Tami. Her life had hit a snag, but she had someone, no matter how far it strayed from the ideal.

“What kind of flowers is Mom thinking this year?” Tami asked, switching subjects.

“Tulip and lily combination.”

“Lilies? Aren’t those for funerals?”

“Maybe we are supposed to see the subtle symbolism,” I joked.

“Mom lives for these parties.”

“How does she do it every year? It’s so much work, the people, the preparation. I just don’t see how she has kept it up all these years, especially since Daddy died.”

“Why does she do it? That’s a better question.”

“You know she thinks it’s her duty. She has to keep herself loyal to the tradition. I just don’t know if I’m gonna be able to do it.” The words caught in Tami’s throat and she stammered, “Maybe it’s that I don’t know if I want to.”

“There’s nothing that says you have to.”

“I do have to. You won’t do it, and as the oldest, the responsibility falls onto me.” Her voice rose sharply.

We turned off the interstate at exit 167 and merged onto Main Street before parking a few doors from Archilon Florists. A cowbell rang out as we pulled opened the door. I stepped just over the threshold, and the aroma of roses, potting soil, and soaked floral foam flew into me as I inhaled, laying to the back of my tongue until I let out a cough to clear my throat.

“Well, ladies, what’s on the list for this year’s party?” Wilma asked as she shoved the last stem of baby’s breath into an arrangement of African daisy and primrose.

She was a sweet woman somewhere in the later stages of life. She walked with a whittled cane of teakwood, dragging her limp left leg over the floor behind her as she walked. Her smock was bright orange and as floral as her many vases and bouquets and as chromatic as her friendly disposition. She was a widow, childless, and the stress of running the flower shop on her own forced her to decrease her hours of operation on what seemed like a weekly basis.

“Lilies and tulips this year, Wilma,” I said, raising my eyebrows at the absurdity of my mother’s choices.

“Perennials and bulbs...
convallaria majalis
and
liliaceae
,” she said, writing the names on a whiteboard that was mounted on the wall behind the counter. “I think you should add Shirley poppies to that list,” she said as she wrote. “That way you have a well-rounded assortment that consists of annuals, perennials, and bulbs.” She went on, “Now, what is the container of choice for this year?”

“Clay amphoras,” Tami said as she walked the aisles, surveying the many pots and dried wreaths that lined the walls.

“Interesting choice...that’s your mother,” Wilma said, shaking her head with a giggle. “How many?”

I unfolded the crumpled list from my pocket. “Five large ones,” I said, rechecking the number.

“The usual coloration?” she asked, adding to her notes.

“That part never changes.” I arched my brow and smiled.

“So...you’re gonna need roughly a dozen of each per pot, times five pots. That’s,” she punched the keys of the calculator and the paper spilled on the counter, “sixty per pot per kind, times three, for a grand total of one hundred and eighty,” she finished. “I’ll send the bill on ahead to your mother and I will have the flowers delivered,” she eyed the calendar and pointed, “August eleventh, and I will come out to the house on the twelfth and arrange them, as always.”

“Thanks, Wilma,” Tami and I said in unison, heading toward the door.

“You young ladies have a nice afternoon, it’s a hot one,” Wilma said, wiping sweat from her upper lip with a tissue.

We climbed back into the car and over the next few hours made the rounds about town to the caterer and the rental and equipment supply store before finally stopping for lunch on Pierce Street at Papa Que’s Hickory Shack. It was the best BBQ in town. Hickory and mesquite billowed from the chimney, hovering over the city of Lafayette like the puffy cover of fall storm clouds.

The time approached four p.m. as we headed toward home and our last stop, Côte Blanche Landing. As always, its proprietor, Gator, was perched on the deck, rocking back and forth to the blare of bluegrass from his old Victrola. We strolled the raised dock of worn logs, hopping over missing planks until we were at the water’s edge. I kicked the foot of the rocker until Gator snorted, wiping drool from the denim buckle of his coveralls, then looked up at us.

Gator was an interesting fella, more water scavenger then human. The soles of his bare feet were strained black with tar and soot from his years of scrounging through the backwoods without the benefit of footwear. He owned a fishery along the bay, his shanty chipped of what paint had once adorned it and spotted with various boards and tree trunks that held the rotted walls of shoddy workmanship to its simple frame. The one positive thing about his character was his reputation as the best fisherman on the water. Admittedly, one had to overlook his deplorable grooming habits and turn a deaf ear toward his filthy humor and crude comments toward the opposite sex, all of which the locals chose to do for fear of losing the fresh crawfish and jumbo shrimp the bayou had to offer.

“Well hey there, sexy duet,” he slobbered. “What do I do youse for?” He stood up, hiking and then fastening the hooks of his overalls. “Let me guess, Gator’s fresh crawfish.” He chuckled, scraping his fingernail over his teeth. “How many I do you for dis year?” he asked in an informal Cajun patois.

“Sixty pounds,” Tami said with disgust toward his poor manners. “Right, Kari?” she asked, tugging on the sleeve of my shirt. “Kari!”

“What?” I asked.

“We need sixty pounds of crawfish, right?”

“Oh right, yeah. Sixty pounds.”

“What are you looking at?” Tami asked.

“Nothing.” I said, my attention still directed toward the harbor and the sprinkle of Bayliners and sailboats that were anchored near the shore. I was focused on one that was a few yards out from the pier with a tall mast and flapping sail, bleached white with several yellow stars, and the name
Small Wonder
stenciled to the back of the stern. A young woman clad in cut-offs and a bikini top was waving in my direction. She stepped over the taut line fencing the starboard side, walked out onto a narrow bridge, and then dived in. I stretched my neck and watched her smooth stroke, her body cutting through the water in a straight line toward me, until she reached the edge of the dock, hoisting herself up over the jagged sides until she was standing just in front of me.

“Hi,” she said, wringing her long hair to remove the excess water.

“Hi,” I said. “That was quite a sprint.”

“I love the water,” she said. “There’s nothing that makes you feel more alive than cool water over your skin.”

It was a corny comment, but I smiled anyway.

“Do you swim?” she asked.

“She was a lifeguard in college,” Tami chimed in.

“This is Regency. Regee,” I said, introducing her. “Carl’s daughter.”

“Hi,” Tami said quickly, turning back toward Gator and the paper he was writing up.

“How about a dip?”

“I don’t know...we’re working on party arrangements.”

“You don’t know what you’re missing.” She jumped back into the water and floated onto her back. “It’s cold at first, but once you get use to it...it’s nice.”

She was gorgeous, her hair slicked back to her head, her eyelashes curling upward as they dripped water, her arms long and firm as the sun reflected from the water around her muscular figure.

Without a thought I kicked off my saddles, ripped off my T-shirt and knotted it through the belt loop of my shorts, then dove in, popping up next to her.

“Ugh. It’s cold!” I shrieked. “I’ll meet you back at the house later, Tami,” I shouted, then rolled onto my stomach and chased after Regee as she rapidly sped ahead of me. When I got within reach, I grabbed the back of her ankle, pulling her a stroke or two behind me, then hoisted myself up the slick rungs of the ladder that striped the boat’s side.

“Game, set, and match,” I cheered, gloating as I fell back on the fiberglass deck and then stretched out, gasping for air.

“You cheat!” She laughed, flopping down at my side.

“You had a head start—a few hundred yards or so, I would say,” I retorted in my defense. “It’s great out here, so calm. Is this your boat?”

“Sort of. I’m buying it from my dad, few hundred or so more payments and she’ll be mine.” She ran her hand over the deck as if it were the mane of a furry animal.

“God, it’s great! I love boats. Sometimes on the weekends I jog around Lake Union just to watch the fishermen come in and out from their scows.” I moved my gaze across the antique copper sextant that was perched over the gauges of the boat’s dash and watched the jiggle of liquid around the dial inside the dome of the compass. I looked out at the boats moored near the crest of Vermilion Bay, then out over Cypremort Point State Park and to the tourists snapping pictures of wildlife along the Marsh Island beach.

“What’s Seattle like? I’ve never been there,” she asked.