Free The Love Potion by Sandra Hill

LeDeux,”Tante Lulu chastised. She was picking up dirty clothes off the floor and placing them in a hamper. Then, she opened a large armoire and started to lay out clean, neatly pressed slacks, shirts, socks, and underwear, still in their laundry packets. “Go take a shower. I’ll make you a good Cajun breakfast …boudin sausage, scrambled eggs with shrimp, fried okra, pan bread, beignets , and coffee.”
    After a quick visit to the bathroom, he shrugged on a pair of sweat pants and followed her into the kitchen, where she was unloading a bag of groceries she’d brought with her. Leaning on the open refrigerator door, he contemplated the nothingness inside the refrigerator and said, “You don’t have to cook that stuff for me.” Besides, he was sure to lose every mouthful if he put anything other than coffee in his stomach.
    “I want to,” she said with a shrug, “although you should be havin’ a wife to do for you.” It was her continual gripe. Find a good woman, Luc. That’s what you need . “What you need is to find a good woman, Luc.”
    “Women today are liberated, Auntie. They bring home the bacon, they don’t fry it up no more. In fact, they probably buy turkey bacon—less cholesterol—and make the husband do the cooking.”
    “Humph! Not a good old-fashioned Cajun girl.”
    He just grinned at her. “How come you’re here on a Monday morning?” he asked, idly scratching his chest.
    “Two reasons,” she said, and continued to unload her grocery bag. She’d brought enough foodstuffs to last him a week.
    “Well?” he prodded finally.
    “I brought you some more embroidered pillow cases for your hope chest. And a new Cajun blanket I just finished weaving. Oh, and another St. Jude statuette. You can put this one in the bedroom,” she offered meaningfully. St. Jude was the patron saint of hopeless cases. Needless to say, his aunt thought he was pretty nigh hopeless. He had enough St. Jude statues in his apartment to open a gallery, except they were mostly plastic.
    He groaned. “Tante Lulu, men don’t have hope chests. And I have enough handmade, embroidered linens to open a department store. Sheets, pillow cases, blankets, bedspreads, dish towels, napkins, doilies.” Tante Lulu meant well, but she was making him the laughingstock of the bayou with this hope chest nonsense. When he walked down the street, he often heard his friends hooting with laughter as they told hope chest jokes.
    “How many Cajuns does it take to fill a hope chest?”
    “Just one. Luc LeDeux.”
    Needless to say, the jokes weren’t even funny.
    No one made St. Jude jokes, though. Cajuns were a superstitious lot, and there was no fooling with the saints.
    The problem was, he couldn’t hurt Tante Lulu’s feelings by refusing the gifts. In truth, he was beginning to think he gave meaning to the last days of Tante Lulu’s life: find the boy a wife.
    “You can’t never have enough linens…especially when you first get married.” Tante Lulu must have been talking while his mind had wandered. She had already gotten the coffee perking,and the thick pungent smell of chicory filled his small kitchen. Now she was cracking eggs into a bowl …four of them. Lordy, Lordy! Four eggs!
    But the overabundant breakfast she was preparing wasn’t his biggest concern. “Tante Lulu,” he cried, putting his face in his hands, “I am not getting married. How many times do I have to tell you?”
    “You will someday,” she insisted. “I’m just making sure you’re ready when the thunderbolt hits.” To Tante Lulu, the thunderbolt was her version of falling head over heels in love. “By the way, have you ever made it with her?”
    “Made it? Tante Lulu, I’m surprised at you!” Luc exclaimed with shock. He couldn’t believe his great-aunt was asking him if he’d made it with some woman. The bleach must have seeped into her brain. “Made it with whom ?” he finally sputtered out.
    “Sylvie Fontaine. Mon Dieu , she looks