Page 18 of The Cajun Doctor

Chapter Four

A dog, a cat, and birds, oh, my! . . .

“He’s stalking me,” Samantha told Lucien LeDeux when he came to her house the Monday following the wedding.

“That’s what you said on the phone.”

“Should I buy a gun?”

“Uh. Maybe not yet.”

“Tante Lulu says she can lend me hers.”

“Mon Dieu! Is she still packing a pistol in her purse? She must have bought another one. I buried the last one in her okra patch.”

“I think it was a shotgun she mentioned. Pump action. Twelve gauge.”

He rolled his eyes. “Let’s talk first.”

Samantha hadn’t really been serious about a gun. Though her ex-husband was beginning to creep her out.

Luc took one of the two mugs of strong Creole coffee she’d just made and followed her from the kitchen into the atrium which she’d converted into a sunny library-lounge. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases on the house side with French doors leading out onto a wraparound patio from the three other sides. Her grandfather’s old partner’s desk sat in the middle, and two low couches gave the sunny room an inviting atmosphere. A great place to take care of Starr or foundation business when at home, to read a good book (she was hooked on biographies), or to chat with friends (who were few and far between since the divorce).

It was one of her favorite rooms in the two-hundred-year-old Garden District home. Nick had hated it, wanting instead to raise prize orchids there or some such thing. Not because he knew a bleepin’ thing about orchids, but he’d read in Architectural Digest that it was a hobby of old-rich families (as compared to new-rich, like himself, thanks to the Starr family well he kept dipping in). Truth to tell, Nick had never been overly fond of the house as a whole, which was small by Garden District standards, being a converted carriage house.

In fact, Nick never could fathom why a woman with such financial assets would choose to live in such an understated manner, and not just in her housing choices. She liked designer clothing, but she had no qualms about keeping the quality, often timeless items for years and mixing and matching outfits for maximum use. In fact, the Chanel pantsuit she’d worn to court was more than ten years old, purchased on her honeymoon to Paris. As for jewelry, she had several good pieces, but nothing flashy or overly expensive. Unlike Nick, who had two Rolex fifteen-thousand-dollar watches and a Bvlgari chronograph that did everything but fly a plane.

And speaking of planes . . . at one point, Nick had wanted her to buy a Piper Aztec plane. When she’d argued the lack of need for such an extravagant purchase, he’d said it would only be a small plane. Still, a plane!

“Why not buy a yacht while you’re at it?” she’d asked.

“Now that you mention it, think about the kind of networking we could do among my medical colleagues,” Nick had remarked, giving her the coaxing smile he’d perfected over the years.

She now knew what kind of networking he’d had in mind.

Thank God that part of her life was over. And thank God there had been no airplane or yacht to deal with during their divorce.

Samantha sank down onto one couch and Luc onto the other. He took a sip of his strong coffee and made a humming noise of appreciation. She placed hers on the coffee table between them, a huge crosscut slab of an ancient cypress tree in the shape of an elongated egg. Its patina and whorls of age rings spoke to Samantha. Truly a work of art, by both nature and the craftsman.

Luc put his mug down, too, and ran a finger over the top of the table. “A Jacque Vermain?”

She nodded, surprised that Luc would recognize the work of the backwoods craftsman. His pieces weren’t sold in any shop. You had to know someone who knew him, and even then the old codger might not let you come out to his bayou workshop to view his pieces.

“My sister-in-law Rachel . . . you’ve met her, haven’t you?”

“Remy’s wife?”

“Uh-huh. Anyhow, Rachel is an interior decorator,” Luc said. “She fell in love with Vermain’s furniture and talked him into making her a massive dining room table fer their big family. They’ve adopted a pigload of kids, y’know. And my wife has one of his salad bowls, which we’re not allowed ta eat out of. Go figure.”

“It probably cost as much as the down payment on your Beemer.”

“Really?” Luc pretended shock but wasn’t really all that concerned. He could afford a thousand-dollar salad bowl, or two. “Anyhow, Tante Lulu wants him to carve her a statue of St. Jude, but thus far he’s declined. Not his thing.”

“Hey, I heard he was just commissioned by some Jewish congregation in Biloxi to make a carved, arched double door for its synagogue.” She’d read about it in the style section of the Sunday paper. Which was becoming a rarity in itself . . . print newspapers, that was. To her, lolling about on a Sunday morning with a computer version of the New York Times wasn’t nearly as satisfying as a print edition spread all over the place. Another thing Nick hadn’t been able to stand. “So, St. Jude might not be far behind,” she concluded.

Luc smiled. They both knew how persistent the old lady could be when she wanted something.

“The wedding was wonderful,” Samantha commented then, which wasn’t really a change of subject. Everyone knew that Tante Lulu was largely responsible for the wedding celebration, and, Good Lord, they must have invited half of the South.