Free Cajun Waltz by Robert H. Patton

father had bought Georgia Hill after R.J. returned to the academy following Esther’s funeral. R.J.’s first visit there was on his midwinter break. Bonnie, employed full time at Block’s now, met him at the Lake Charles bus depot in an MG convertible that Richie had recently bought her. She was striking rather than pretty, with an angular jaw and thick hair that fought the aluminum curlers she applied grudgingly at night. Teenage vogues of pleated skirts and square-shouldered blouses gave her the appearance, because of her height, of a librarian who might also coach basketball. She was taller than her brother and much taller than any girl she knew, an unwelcome distinction that made leaving high school a relief and gave sweet satisfaction to zipping around town in a ragtop roadster and pointedly not waving to former schoolmates standing like fools at the bus stop.
    Bonnie loved working at Block’s. Her father had assured her that she would run the operation eventually, a pledge he’d reiterated to allay her concern, earlier that afternoon, on meeting the “houseguests” he’d invited down from Shreveport. In her car at the depot waiting for R.J., she recalled today’s introduction with a smile, sort of, as she pictured R.J.’s shocked face a few minutes from now, when he too would meet his new mom and little brother.
    â€œWhat’s funny?” He climbed into the MG beside his sister, his rucksack on his lap. “That you got a car and I don’t.”
    â€œJust all the changes.”
    â€œLike the house?”
    â€œWell, it’s big. We’ve got staff now.” She pulled onto the road. “We come from a rich family, R.J. More than I knew.”
    â€œYou’re the expert.”
    â€œGetting there. I met bankers, suppliers, store managers, and I’ve been sitting with the lawyer to learn the particulars.”
    â€œSuppose I want some of that?” He didn’t, but was curious what she’d say.
    â€œTo work in retail? I thought college for you. Go be the smart one.”
    â€œLet you be the boss.”
    â€œI do the work, you get the money. Not so bad.”
    He bent to light a cigarette. “Could be I’ll just stay home, play guitar on the porch. Maybe summon the staff now and then.”
    â€œWe don’t have a porch, R.J. We have a terrace.” Bonnie wheeled into the driveway, the live oaks like dark sentinels at each side. “Georgia Hill,” she said, her expression losing its humor. “Home.”
    *   *   *
    R ICHIE HAD ARRANGED Angel and Seth on a sofa in the front parlor awaiting R.J.’s arrival with Bonnie. There was an endearing quality to his agitation that was lost on Angel. She didn’t like seeing Richie fret over something in which he held the power. A month from thirty (he was forty-six), she wondered why he couldn’t just command his older children to love their new family. She wanted nothing from them that wasn’t in her possession already. She was Mrs. Richie Bainard, married in the Shreveport courthouse with little Seth passing the wedding ring after his daddy gave him the high sign. Issues of inheritance and hierarchy that had leaped to Bonnie’s mind when they’d met today didn’t trouble Angel at all. She expected her husband to take care of her and their child in proper fashion whether the others liked it or not. Ultimately she was sure they would like it. She’d never met anyone she couldn’t charm.
    And really, things went pretty well that night. Bonnie had absorbed the news already, and shocks in general tended to register with R.J. as interesting breaks from boredom. Their father made introductions even before R.J. laid down his bag. Angel hopped off the sofa and approached so fast that R.J. had time to discern only a beaming face of almond complexion and jade-colored eyes. She threw her arms around him in her habitual way of pushing