Page 50 of Lulu’s Recipe for Cajun Sass

He knocked on the door, and, when Louise answered, he saw that she’d dressed for company…for him? Please, God! She was wearing a short-sleeved, scoop-necked dress with big-ass, brightly-colored flowers—purple gardenias, yellow hibiscus, pink orchids, green ferns, and purple lilies, all on a pale blue background. Sort of Hawaiian-Cajun. (I should have worn sunglasses. Ha, ha, ha!) Glossy watermelon red lipstick (I wonder if it tastes like watermelon. Ha, ha, ha!) matched the toenails that could be seen in the peep-toe, white high heels she wore. (For her, I could turn into one of those foot fetish perverts, maybe. Ha, ha, ha.) Her hair was upswept and held in place with lacquer combs. (The best part of those updo’s, in a man’s opinion, is taking them down, especially if it’s a prelude to— Cut it out, Justin! You need to focus. Keep your cool. Stop wringing your hands with nervousness. Jeesh!)

In any case, he interpreted the special care she’d taken with her appearance as a good sign, which was probably pathetic of him. For all he knew, she had a date with someone else, or had come back from an early date.

“Louise, darlin’, I have missed you so much,” he said, following her into the living room.

“I’ve missed you, too,” she said, but the sad expression on her face did not bode well for him.

To hell with caution and taking things easy, as he’d planned. He stepped forward and took her into his arms. Just hugging her. And kissing the top of her head. She felt so good. And she wasn’t pushing him away. At first, anyway.

When she did begin to press her hands against his chest, he stepped back immediately and tilted his head in question. “Sweetheart…?”

“Let’s sit down,” she suggested, and motioned toward the davenport. In front of it, on a coffee table, were two stemmed glasses with a pale yellowish liquid in them. “And try my new batch of dandelion wine.”

He waited for her to sit down before dropping down beside her. Not too close, but not too far away, either. He took his glass in hand and clinked it against the one she’d picked up. He wanted to say, “To us,” but figured that would come off as presumptuous. Instead, he said, “To good wine.” But then, after taking a sip, he added, “This is really good.”

“Thank you. It did turn out well.”

“Do you sell it?”

She shook her head. “No, that would be illegal. I just give it to friends. It makes an especially good addition to Christmas gift baskets, along with my jams and pickles and other homemade items.” She was rambling. Maybe she was nervous, too. He wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.

“You are incredible,” he remarked and took another sip. Waving at the wine glasses and a plate of crackers and cheese (he wouldn’t be surprised if she’d made those from scratch, too), he said, “So, you were expecting me this late? You’re not dolled up for someone else?”

“Is that what you thought?” She straightened with affront.

Uh-oh! He shrugged. “I was afraid.”

“Pfff! That doesn’t say much about your opinion of me.”

“No, it says more about my opinion of myself and whether I’ve shot my chances with you to hell. This week has been a nightmare for me, Louise.” He took her hand in his.

She didn’t pull away. “I haven’t slept two hours straight all week.”

He raised her hand and kissed the knuckles.

She did pull her hand away then and asked, “How did the tests go?”

“Good. I won’t get the final results for a few days, but I’m certain I passed.”

“Then you’re Doctor Boudreaux now?”

“Pretty much.”

“Congratulations. Of course, I knew you would do well.”

“Oh, you did, did you?” He flicked her chin with a forefinger in a teasing manner. “And why was that? Your prayers to St. Jude?”

“Well, there was that,” she said with a smile. “But I was talking to Leon when I went to deliver some produce a few days ago, and he told me that you are super, super intelligent. His words exactly. According to Leon, back when you were in high school, the students were given intelligence tests and your score went off the page.”

“Leon said that?” He was surprised. Usually he and his brother only had fond insults for each other, never anything serious. He wondered about the context of any conversation in which that subject might come up.

“Yep, and then I met Dr. Clovis at church last Sunday and he told me that he knew one of your professors at Harvard, a colleague of his from way back. This guy told Dr. Clovis that you are a brilliant student and that he fully expects you to be a brilliant doctor someday. Dr. Clovis has pretty much accepted that you won’t be joining his practice, your ambitions being much greater than his lowly practice.”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

They were smiling at each other, but then Louise’s expression changed as she took one of his hands in hers and said, “I’ve made a decision, Justin.”

“Oh, no, no, no! You can’t make a decision without us talking first.” That look on her face was the kiss of death. Guys from the age of puberty to geezerhood knew the female expression that preceded the dumping. The only thing missing was the standard, “It’s not you, it’s me.”