Free Bayou My Love: A Novel by Lauren Faulkenberry Page A

“Work first, then?”
    “Seems
to be our way.”
    It
took him a minute to realize what I meant. Then he laughed, but he wasn’t
amused. “Next thing I know, you’ll make me sign a contract.”
    “The
thought crossed my mind.”
    He
laughed again. “Lord, cher. Can’t you take a man at his word?”
    Truth
was, I couldn’t.
    I
hoped Jack wasn’t one of those things I would regret in days or years to come.
He was clearly upset, but I couldn’t be sure it was because he wanted to be
closer to me. After he’d left, a hundred thoughts banged around in my head like
marbles. And in the swirling fragments, there was one that stuck.
    What
if he was trying to con his way into keeping the house?
    This
could very well be Jack’s way of trying to secure the roof over his head. He
hadn’t struck me as the calculating type in the beginning, but the more I
thought about it, the more it seemed possible he’d planned to seduce me all
along, to make sure I didn’t kick him out. He knew the effect he had on me, and
that would make me an easy mark. Then he’d be just another person who left me
and took a part of me with him.
    There
was no way I’d let that happen. I was not gullible, and I would not be conned.
As tempting as Jack Mayronne was, I needed to put distance between us.
    “I
should get some sleep,” I said, standing. “And I know you need it too. We don’t
have to start too early in the morning, but the parish building inspector’s
coming at nine.”
    “OK,”
he said. “Me, I’ll just go dream about all the things I was going to do to you
to make up for leaving you in such a state.”
    I
tossed a throw cushion at him, and he raised an eyebrow.
    “Mmm,”
he said. “Guess you’ll have to lie awake all night wondering.”
    “Get
some sleep,” I said. “You’ll need it.”
    He
laughed, and I trudged up the stairs, cursing my brain for being so damned
logical. This was going to be a long six weeks.

 
    Chapter
6
    When
that bright orange hearse rumbled down the driveway the next morning, I thought
I’d finally reached my quota of strange. Jack’s bedroom door was still closed
when I came downstairs, so I’d perched on the porch steps to drink my coffee.
The car sputtered when it stopped, and a man in dark blue coveralls climbed out,
dusting himself off. With a clipboard under his arm, he walked to the house in
that same slow way Jack did, as if he weren’t bound by time like the rest of
us.
    When
he was halfway up the walk, he said, “You Miss Parker?” He had flecks of white
on the front of his coveralls and a streak across his nose. Powdered sugar from
beignets, I imagined.
    “I’m
Enza,” I said. “You’re here for the inspection?”
    He
shook my hand, squeezing too hard. “I’m Grant Carmine. You talked to my
assistant last week.” When he yanked his cap off, his blond hair stood straight
up in the air.
    “Right,”
I said. “Interesting choice of vehicle.”
    “Low
miles. Lots of room. Hell of a deal.”
    “Come
on in. I haven’t done much besides painting.”
    “If
you don’t mind, I’ll start outside,” he said, pulling a pair of horn-rimmed
glasses from his chest pocket. “Before it gets too steaming hot.”
    To
keep out of his way, I sat on the porch, skimming the headlines of the local
paper. Every few minutes I’d look up to see him scribbling in a small notebook,
the dog following behind. He’d whistle at her every now and then, and she’d lie
down and stare at him.
    After
a while, Jack wandered onto the porch wearing only a pair of jeans, his hair
standing up in tufts. “Morning,” he said, sipping his coffee. I could tell from
his dopey expression that he’d showed up half-dressed to make me regret leaving
him on the couch last night.
    It
worked.
    I
pretended not to notice he was missing a shirt, even though it felt ten degrees
hotter on that porch. I just said, “Good morning,” and handed him half of the
paper.
    While
he was reading, I studied his tattoo—a