Chapter 1

The long hot summer just got hotter . . .

"That Richard Simmons sure is a hottie."

Whaaat? René LeDeux put down the caulking gun he'd been using to chink the logs of his home-in-progress and stared in astonishment at his great aunt Louise Rivard, who'd made that astounding announcement. Tante Lulu, as she was known, lounged on a hammock in the front yard, cool as a Cajun cucumber.

He wore only cargo shorts, a tool belt, and heavy work boots in deference to the scorching heat of the hottest summer in Louisiana history. He swiped his forearm across his brow, as much to gather patience as sweat before speaking. "Tante Lulu! Richard Simmons is not a hottie. Not by any stretch of anyone's imagination."

"He is in mine. Whoo-ee! When he wears those short shorts, I just melt."

Now that was an image he did not need. He tried picturing his seventy-nine-year-old great aunt in hormone overload. Talk about! But it did explain her attire: a pink headband encircling tight white curls, a red tank top with the logo Exercise That!, purple nylon running shorts, and white athletic shoes with short anklets sporting pink pom-poms on the back. She was a five-foot-zero package of wrinkled skinniness, the last person in the world in need of a workout. The fact that she was a noted traiteur, or folk healer, while at the same time being a bit batty, was a contradiction he and his brothers had accepted all their lives.

He adored the old lady. They all did.

He started to walk toward her and cracked his shin against the big wooden box in the middle of the porch. "Ow, ow, ow!" he howled aloud, while inside he screamed much fouler words and hopped about on one foot.

"I tol' you ya shoulda put yer hope chest inside," Tante Lulu said as she raised her head slightly to see what all his ruckus was about. "Doan wanna get rain or bird poop on it or nuthin'."

Actually, inside wasn't much better than outside when it came to René's raised log house. He had the roof and frame up, but no windows, only screens. It was all just one big room with an unfinished loft, aside from the bathroom, which was operational thanks to a rain-filled cistern. A gasoline-operated generator provided electricity for the fridge and stove. Except for a card table and two folding chairs, a bookcase, and a bed with mosquito netting, there was no furniture. That's the way he liked it. It would do till the construction work was completed.

Of course now he had a hope chest to add to his furnishings. And the midget-sized plastic St. Jude statue sitting in the front yard, another of Tante Lulu's "gifts." St. Jude was the patron saint of hopeless causes. René was no fool. Tante Lulu was giving him a message with both her gifts.

"Auntie, there is something I need to say to you. My life is in shambles right now. I quit my job. I'm burned out totally. Don't even think of trying to set me up with some woman. I am not in the market for a wife."

Whenever his great aunt thought it was time for one of her nephews to bite the bullet, she started in on them. Embroidered pillow cases, bridal quilts, doilies for chrissake. She was a one-woman Delta Force when she got a bee in her matchmaking bonnet.

Right now, he was the bee.

Tante Lulu ignored everything he said and continued on about the exercise guru. "Charmaine is gonna try to get us tickets to go see Richard—I likes to call him Richard or Dickie—next time he comes to N'awlins."

Dickie? Mon Dieu!

"Mebbe I'll even get picked fer one of his TV shows."

That was a hopeless wish if he ever heard one. He hoped. St. Jude, you wouldn't! Would you?

Charmaine was his half sister and as much a bubblehead as his great aunt. The prospect of his Tante Lulu doing jumping jacks on TV was downright scary. But then, she and Charmaine had entered a belly dancing contest not so long ago. So, not out of the realm of possibilities.

"Mebbe ya could go to his show with us. Mebbe ya could meet a girl there. Then I wouldn't have to fix you up."

Yep, that's my dream date, all right. "Don't you dare try fixing me up."

"And Charmaine's gonna get me the latest video of 'Sweatin' to the Oldies' fer my birthday in September. You want she should get you one, too?"

"No, I don't want an exercise video. Besides, I thought Charmaine was planning a big birthday bash for your gift."

"Cain't a girl get two gifts? Jeesh!" She eyed him craftily. "Actually, I'm hopin' fer three gifts."

At first he didn't understand. Then he raised both hands in protest. "No, no, no! I am not getting leg shackled to some woman just to give you a birthday present. How about I take you to the racetrack again this year for a birthday gift, like I did last year?"

She shook her head. "Nope, this birthday is a biggie. I'm 'spectin biggie gifts." She gave him another of her pointed looks.

"No!"

"Of course, I might be dead. Then you won't hafta give me anythin', I reckon."

He had to laugh at the sly old bird. She would try anything to get her own way. "I'm only thirty-five years old. I got plenty of time."

Copyright © 2005 by Sandra Hill.