Page 42 of Lulu’s Recipe for Cajun Sass

“Sit down, Pops, and rest on your ‘laurels’,” she advised and continued on her way, chuckling.

When she got back to her blanket, she found Justin fast asleep on his back, the book still open on his chest, probably at the same page. And Adèle was asleep as well, her face on Justin’s shoulder, her little pink ruffled bottom in the air, his hand resting on her mop of still-damp curly hair. They could have been father and daughter. In fact, for a brief second, it almost looked like Phillipe lying there.

Is it possible that Phillipe sent Justin to me? That he wants me to find another love? That he chose a father for his child?

Whaaat? Forget Cajun Sass. I’m going Cajun Crazy.

Bless my heart!

* * *

And then the other shoe dropped…

Justin was not being fair with his silence. Not to Louise, not to his parents, and not to Doctor Clovis, all of whom had an interest in his future plans. But, dammit, he was waiting to hear about something important. It was a longshot that would probably never pay off, but, man, it could be so life-altering that he had to give it a chance.

In the meantime, he was studying almost full-time for his medical boards which he would take in ten more days. He’d already tied up the loose ends of his residency at the hospital and only had a few more shifts to handle before he was done.

It was almost two weeks since the wedding and his day at Grand Isle, but he’d only been able to get back to Houma a few times for in-and-out visits…literally, in Louise’s case. With his parents, it was usually a quick dinner before he was off. His brother and his bride would return soon from their extended honeymoon to Europe, which was already recovering from the war. It had been a wedding gift from the Fortiers.

In mid-afternoon, there was a knock on the door of the Creole cottage he shared with his roommate, Barry Chauvin, a fellow resident at the hospital from LSU. He heard the knock from his small bedroom upstairs, but didn’t bother to go down since he knew Barry was at home, studying for his own exams. Within minutes, Barry called out from the stairway, “Yo, Boudreaux! You got company.”

To his shock, it was his mother. All dressed up in her Sunday clothes—on a weekday—a pretty floral, belted dress with low-heeled white pumps. Minus the usual white butcher’s apron that she wore in the store. Her gray-streaked brown hair was done up in the neat Victory Roll hairstyle made popular during the war; she must have come here directly from the beauty parlor.

After giving her a warm hug, he said, “Mama, what you doin’ here? Doan tell me you were just passin’ by. I have your car here. Is Daddy with you?”

“No, no. Jist me. Drove Leon’s car. Did a little shoppin’ at Holmes Department Store, then decided to come visit you. Cain’t a mother visit her oldest son without askin’?”

There had to be more than that.

“Are you sick? Is Daddy sick?”

She shook her head as he settled her onto the upholstered davenport in the small living room while he sat beside her.

“Would you like something to drink? Sweet tea? Lemonade? There’s probably coffee, too. I’ve been drinking so much coffee while I study that I’m ’bout to turn into a coffee bean.”

“You work so hard.” She patted him on the knee. “No, nothin’ to drink.” She stared around the room then and remarked, “You know the history of these Creole cottages, dontcha?” He nodded, but still she went on to explain, “Back before the Big War,” (to Southerners, the Big War referred not to World War I or II but to the Civil War), “the white plantation owners would go to the Quadroon Balls where they would pick out mixed race young women to be their placèes, or common-law wives. All legal and accepted. They bought them houses, jist like this one, and signed contracts to raise their children and provide for them for life, or until they got tired of them. Tsk, tsk, tsk! A horrible practice, plaçage was! Use ’em and lose ’em, as you young folks say today. Those poor women!”

Justin frowned. He had no idea what this visit was really about.

“I’m worried about Louise…and that niece of hers.”

Whaaat? That was the last thing he’d expected. “Why?”

His mother raised her eyebrows at him. “Men! Yer brains are different from women’s, thass fer sure.”

That was true, to some extent, but not in the way his mother probably meant. Justin decided not to give her an anatomy lesson. “What does that have to do with Louise or Adèle?”

Instead of answering his question, his mother veered off in another direction. “Such a sweet chile, that Adèle. I allus wondered why she didn’t live with her mother, Patti Rivard, or why her mother never came to visit, even if she did give her baby up. Some women jist ain’t motherly, I guess.” His mother shrugged.

“I didn’t know Adèle’s mother was around.”

“Oh, she’s not. Lives in Mexico, I think. Has ever since she jilted her husband Frank while he was in a prison camp during the war and ran off with some soldier who went AWOL. That was before Frank died. Such a scandal it was at the time.”

“Mama! Where do you hear all these things?”

“The ladies of the Altar and Rosary Society. We meet fer lunch every first Friday of the month after low mass.”

Ah! The bayou grapevine. Gossip central.