A Taste Of Bayou Water

By Lynn Shurr

Billionaire Jonathan Hartz arrives in Louisiana seeking a place for his new business but finding Celine Landry. His personal assistant and her brother object to the match and form an alliance to keep the lovers apart. Hartz is undaunted. He will win his lady even if it means becoming Cajun.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Nov 6, 2013
• ISBN: 9781613091715

Book preview

A Taste of Bayou Water

In the salon of the Bayou Belle, Celine Landry and Jonathan Hartz danced without music in the deserted room, the lights turned low. They moved silently through the party debris of spilled plastic cups, a pair of discarded high heels, small mounds of Mardi Gras bead favors gleaming purple and gold, in and out of puddles of champagne and moonlight.

You don’t have to stay, Celine, unless you want to—no matter what the mayor says—but the captain did offer me her cabin for the night.

I want to stay with you.

Table of Contents

A Taste of Bayou Waters

Table of Contents

What They Are Saying About A Taste of Bayou Water

A Taste of Bayou Water Title Page

Dedication

Chapters

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Meet Lynn Shurr

Letter To Our Readers

Works From The Pen of Lynn Shurr

What They Are Saying About A Taste of Bayou Water

Very easy reads, well written, combined with conflict, believable plots and secondary characters that make the story come alive.

Jane Lange

Romances, Reads & Reviews

Shurr is a wonderful story teller.

The Romance Studio

Lynn Shurr’s stories have that distinctive Louisiana flavor…and make you eager for another taste.

J. L. Salter

author

A Taste of Bayou Water

Lynn Shurr

A Wings ePress, Inc.

Contemporary Romance Novel

Edited by: Joan Afman

Copy Edited by: Elizabeth Struble

Senior Editor: Leslie Hodges

Executive Editor: Marilyn Kapp

Cover Artist: Trisha Fitzgerald

All rights reserved

Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Copyright © 2013 by Carla Shurr

ISBN 978-1-61309-171-5

Published by Wings ePress, Inc.

Published In the United States Of America

Wings ePress Inc.

3000 N. Rock Road

Newton, KS 67114

Dedication

For my son, James the Physicist, my IT guy for this project-because even nerds can be heroes.

One

Old Sayings: A person can become Cajun three ways—by birth, by marriage, and by the back door.

Once you’ve tasted bayou water, you will always return to Cajun Country.

Where, oh where, is Jonathan Hartz, the billionaire supposed to save Chapelle, Louisiana, from recession and ruination? Probably sitting in an air-conditioned V.I.P. lounge and knocking back a few chilled martinis while half the population of the town swelters in the heat as they wait to greet him.

Disgusted, Celine Landry stood with her kindergarten students behind the parade barricades. Each tot held a blue, double heart-shaped construction paper flag emblazoned with a yellow lightning bolt, the Hartz Technology logo, glued to a Popsicle stick and ready for waving when the great man arrived. Celine bent over to hand out small bottles of cold water to the children. A tiny bit of cleavage showed at the top of her pure white sleeveless dress. One curl of her dark brown hair crept over her shoulder and plastered itself into the sweaty V. She brushed her hand across her breast to remove it, and when she raised her eyes, caught Mayor Guidry Broussard staring.

Hogging the only shade available at noon on this eighty-five-degree day in mid-May, the mayor stood in the exact center of the village gazebo. Wasn’t it enough that his nephew had nearly ruined her life? Now, she had to put up with Guidry’s leers as well as his directive to bring her students out in this heat to greet some self-centered executive who had no consideration for anyone else. Well, she’d finished college and made something of herself despite the Broussard family. Intentionally, Celine rolled a cold water bottle across the top of her chest. The mayor’s eyes widened. If his wife, Patty, caught him looking, she’d make the man’s life hell.

Hell, hot as… Behind the mayor rose the reconstructed church of Ste. Jeanne d’Arc, bright with white paint in the sun. Even its steeple failed to cast one bit of shade for the relief of the hundred or so high school musicians standing at attention on either side of the broad walk severing the green and leading directly to the statue of Ste. Jeanne burning at the stake. At least, the saint looked no more uncomfortable than usual.

A commotion drew the mayor’s eyes away. Wearing the red and black uniform of the St. Jeanne Parochial School Flames Marching Band, little Jenny Patin, skinny as her piccolo, had crumpled to the ground. Two of the heftier band mothers carried her under the low branches of a massive live oak on the green and began reviving her with cold cloths, small cups of Gator Ade, and a stern lecture on the value of eating a good breakfast.

A few members of the Swinging Saints Marching Band of Chapelle High snickered. In their new white and gold uniforms purchased by the Band Boosters with the proceeds of endless car washes, hot link po-boy sales, and Bingo nights, they considered themselves to be made of sturdier stuff. From where she stood, Celine caught a strong waft of adolescent sweat and hormones. The cleaning bill for those uniforms would be terrific and who would have to pay for that? The parents, many of them unemployed.

The sun bounced a piercing ray off the back of Ste. Jeanne’s bronze head and shot it directly into the mayor’s eyes. He winced. Celine was willing to bet swimming pools of sweat formed in the armpits beneath the man’s new navy blue suit. Generally, Guidry wore khaki pants and the red knit shirt with the city logo on the pocket, standard dress around the courthouse and suitable for the climate, but he’d gotten all dressed up for Mr. Big Shot. The mayor tugged at his tie and unconsciously assumed the same position of martyrdom as the patron saint of Chapelle. He checked his watch again.

Asking several adults to move, Celine gave her students permission to sit on the curb. Perspiration matted their fine hair and dribbled down the backs of their tiny necks. Their construction paper flags drooped. She crossed her arms under her breasts and frowned. So where are you, Jonathon Hartz, you arrogant bastard?

~ * ~

Jonathan Hartz sat on Viola Box’s front porch drinking a tall glass of sweet tea. Miz Box sat in her rocker and kept one eye on two small black children playing in the raked dirt while she visited with her guest.

D’vonte, you let Shakira have a turn on that slide, you hear! Bright plastic K-Mart toys littered the yard separated from the two-lane blacktop road by a low picket fence. On the narrow clay shoulder, a rented steel gray Lexus sat with its engine still running for the air-conditioned comfort of a lone passenger.

You sure yo’ girlfriend don’t want some sweet tea? Viola offered again.

No, she’s fine, but she isn’t my girlfriend. Miss Stone is my personal assistant.

Like a secretary, ain’t it?

Something like that, Hartz answered, thinking how utterly offended the efficient Adrienne Stone would be if she heard. So you were telling me your granddaughter used to work at the knitting mill before it closed.

Yep, seems like half the parish did and now they’s all outta work. Sheila’s cooking at the Sonic, but it don’t pay enough for nursery school, so I gots my great-grandchildren to watch, her mama being dead and all these last five years from the high blood pressure. D’Vonte be old enough for Headstart next year, but I gots Shakira for awhile yet. Hard to run after ‘em on these old feets, but they’s company since old Miz Boaz passed on from the diabetes and the DeVilles moved into one of those assisted livin’ places.

She gestured down a row of identical gray cabins lining her side of the road and ending with a white frame company store, its big shutters nailed over the windows and its tall false front peeling paint. She waved a knotted, brown hand at a place behind Hartz. He turned in his seat. A black wrought iron fence surrounded a grove of tall trees. A private road meandered among them to an enormous red brick house with dormers, pillars, and verandahs simply oozing Southern charm.

There’s Pecan Grove. It for sale you want to see it. I gots the keys. Ole Mr. Deville said I could live here free long as I wants if I go on in and dust once in awhile and show the place if anybody’s buyin’. You in the market for a house around here?

No, only here on business. So if a new industry were to open in the old mill it would help you and your granddaughter. There would be a large and willing work force?

Be an answer to our prayers, yessir, especially for the womens. Can’t make good money in the oil field like the men does. Mill’s right down the road. See there?

Viola pointed around a bend where the cane in the field opposite had not yet gotten high enough this dry spring to hide the steep metal roof of an industrial complex. Gotta smaller place for sale, too, old overseer’s cottage on the other side of the Grove. You a single man?

Jonathan Hartz smiled his charming, boyish grin and pushed back the fine, fair hair that had fallen in his mild blue eyes and stuck to his forehead with droplets of sweat. Why Mrs. Box, are you looking for a husband?

The old lady cackled and stamped her feet in their pink Wal-Mart scuffs, then turned her attention to the children. D’vonte, stop pullin’ the head off Shakira’s doll. Come on in and wash up for lunch. Red beans and rice. Got plenty, Mr. Jon, if you and your lady wants to stay.

At that moment, a puff of cold air struck Jonathan’s cheek. He turned toward the car where an elegant hand emerged from a lowered power window. A long finger tapped a slim gold watch. The window whooshed shut again.

I thank you, but I have an appointment in town. Jonathan Hartz rose and gently shook Miz Viola’s arthritic hand. It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Mrs. Box.

Call me Miss Vi and come again, you hear. Viola pushed herself out of her rocker using both of her chicken-bone thin arms. With wide dark eyes, the children watched the billionaire go. He slid into the driver’s seat of the expensive car and pulled out, stirring the dust of the shoulder. Through the haze, all three waved good-bye.

Honestly, Jonathan, we’re half an hour late and going to be later, Adrienne Stone started in. As usual when Jonathan insisted on driving, they were poking along five miles under the speed limit as he took in the countryside. She sighed, ever exasperated with him. The mayor had offered a limousine, but Jon always wanted to drive, see the lay of the land, get to know the people.

They rounded the curve, and the factory came into full view. He stopped on the siding by the padlocked gate in the wall of razor wire-topped metal fencing surrounding the property. Hartz gazed over the vast, deserted, potholed parking lot so different from his green space landscaped complexes on the west coast. If anything, the place resembled a minimum security prison, right down to a guard tower at the gate.

It certainly is big enough for a Hartz Technology plant, and the people are in need of work.

A million square feet, unemployment in the parish of eleven percent, and the rest of the businesses suffering because of it. They should be willing to grant large tax exemptions.

Heart of stone, Hartz said.

Pushover for old ladies and small children, Jon, Miss Stone replied.

Once they got to Chapelle, she would address him as Mr. Hartz and walk a few paces behind him. Alone, she spoke her mind, which Jonathan appreciated. He knew her hands itched to take the wheel and get moving. If she had been driving, they would be in Chapelle by now and on time. Miss Stone always said he drove like a granny and had no idea how to make up time on the road. She also abhorred his tendency to waste time talking to the locals.

At the factory gates, the road became a concrete four-lane, put in when the mill was built—fortunate because Jonathan pulled out into the path of a red pickup truck caked in dried mud and bedecked with a rack of deer lights across the cab. The reinforced chrome bumper of the speeding pickup barely missed the right fender of the Lexus. The driver laid on the horn and sped by on the inside lane while shooting the bird with a finger out an open driver’s window. Miss Stone gritted her teeth, obviously resisting the urge to put her window down and answer the insult. Jon drove on sedately.

The four-lane, home to the Sonic, a McDonald’s, and a variety of rather empty fast food places that had once fed the factory workers, narrowed again to two lanes lined with small homes in blue, yellow and white vinyl siding. Some frame houses with their original boards still stood. The homes grew larger and lacier as the travelers approached downtown. An old business district with local eateries featuring Today’s Plate Lunch— Pork Chops, Rice ‘n Gravy and Good Cajun Cooking seemed to be doing better business, at least today. No parking place presented itself as they neared the village green where they were to meet the mayor and councilmen.

Hartz steered into an ancient Canal gas station where a man nearly as old sat on a yellow and green-striped plastic lawn chair under an awning. Hartz jumped out and opened the door for his PA. Could we park here, sir? he asked the proprietor.

Cost you five dollar today. Been waitin’ for dat billionaire guy, me. You missed a damn good show already. Little girls passing out from da heat. Real good fight between da Saints’ drummers and the Cat’lic brass players a little while ago when the heat got to ‘em. You want a fill up? You get a free coffee wit’ dat.

Hartz handed the geezer two twenties. Sure, fill it and keep the change. No coffee, thanks.

He looked shame-faced across the street at the assemblage on the grass. The slightly disheveled bands stood at attention. Groups of mothers with small children and knots of the unemployed lounged in what shade there was. One enterprising restaurateur sold boudin sausages on French rolls from a red cooler and the Band Boosters were doing a landslide business in cold drinks sold from the Pepsi wagon they had towed into place.

His friendly gaze skimmed across the crowd, stopped at a young woman dressed in all in white. With her tanned arms, huge dark eyes and high, rounded breasts, she could be his Princess Lyla. A child tugged at her skirt, and she knelt down out of his sight. Princess Lyla, no way. Seattle never got this hot. He had to be hallucinating.

Red tie flying out from his unbuttoned gray jacket, Hartz raced across the street. The young woman stood up again, and the small children surrounding her shapely legs started waving little flags with the Hartz logo on them. He shot a special smile her way, but she scowled in return. He charged up to the waiting Mayor Broussard who stood on the top step of the church and signaled the bands with a wave of his hand. Both ranks of student musicians broke into When the Saints Come Marchin’ In. The consummate politician gripped Jon’s hand with a sweaty palm and held it to the sky.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Jonathan Hartz!

Two

Adrienne Stone quietly made her way around the public school band and stood at the bottom of the church steps to the right of Hartz. The mayor signaled the bands again and two color guards stepped forward and displayed the American flag. The musicians began playing the National Anthem. A contest seemed to be going on because the public school finished two beats before the private school band. The pledge was recited and the invocation called for. A priest introduced as Father Ardoin stepped forward and prayed.

Oh Lord, allow today to be productive for all concerned in business endeavors. Let mutual prosperity be a blessing you bestow upon us. Grant us your protection and everlasting love in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost.

A mass of arms went into motion making the sign of the cross. Clearly, both patriotism and religion were alive and well in Chapelle, Louisiana. They’d never seen anything like this in Seattle.

The mayor presented Hartz with a huge wooden key slathered in gold paint. Photographers from the local rag and more distant Lafayette and Baton Rouge papers stood at the base of the steps aligning huge lenses or silently framing a digital shot to preserve the historic moment when billionaire Jonathan Hartz came to town.

The bands responded to another flick of the hand by Mayor Broussard with the Mardi Gras Mambo and began filing off toward the yellow buses lining the square to return to their modern, one-story public school or venerable, tree-shaded parochial high depending on their circumstances or religion. Hartz said a few words praising the music and the warm welcome. The mayor thanked the crowd for showing Mr. Hartz what a wonderful town Chapelle was, and the small group on the steps retreated into the cool sanctuary of the church.

Father Ardoin launched into a detailed tour. The church you see here today, Mr. Hartz, is a reconstruction of the original building, one of the oldest religious structures in Louisiana which burned to the ground nine years ago. Fortunately, the plans for the church were found in the archives of the Archdiocese, and we were able to rebuild Ste. Jeanne d’Arc in exact detail. We are a little like Williamsburg on the Bayou.

Father Ardoin waited for the appropriate laughter to his small joke. The air-conditioning works much better than in the old building and of course the parishioners enjoy that.

Hartz and his Miss Stone chuckled again, then stopped abruptly when they realized this was not a joke.

As you can see, we rebuilt the box pews.

Mayor Broussard cleared his throat. Excuse us, Father, but we are running late. They’re holding lunch for us at the Opera House. You’re welcome to come with us, but Reverend Bullock from the AME is giving the blessing.

Thank you, but no. Father Ardoin turned to Hartz. Perhaps, you will join us for Sunday worship, Mr. Hartz.

If we were staying, but Miss Stone and I are heading back to Seattle Saturday afternoon. Hartz shook the priest’s hand and followed portly Mayor Broussard who plowed forward out a side door and across the street to a building of aged red brick and Federalist style labeled the Old Opera House Restaurant as if eager to get to his feed.

Inside the restaurant, shrimp cocktails rimmed with six enormous crustaceans sat on each plate. The creamy coleslaw waited in small dishes to the side. Baskets overflowed with miniature loaves of homemade bread. Over this abundance, Reverend Bullock stood glaring at several councilmen who had gotten hungry during the delay and polished off their appetizers. Imposingly huge, the Rev pumped the hand of Jonathan Hartz vigorously and began a five minute blessing without waiting for a cue from the mayor.

All the foods seemed to be laced with cayenne, even the corn and slaw, but Hartz ate manfully with little tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. Delicious but a little spicy, he replied to the mayor’s inquiry.

Yes, well-seasoned, very well-seasoned. Best seafood in the world. You can eat it every day right here in Chapelle, nice shrimp going for five dollars ninety-five cents a pound, two ninety-five if you want the little gumbo shrimp. Who wouldn’t want to set up a business here?

Hartz nodded his appreciation of this information but made no reply to the business comment. The mayor went on to lay out the rest of his itinerary which included tours of the high school, middle school and grade school, the library if they had the time. They had all been built about six ago when the voters, flushed with optimism and fully employed, had been amenable to passing new taxes and bond issues for the betterment of their community. Chapelle had fine private schools, too, should any executives considering moving into the area have doubts about the public ones. After winding up the meal with meringue-topped bread pudding afloat in a brandy hard sauce, they set out to check each educational facility off the list.

We have to be at the elementary school by three as they have a little entertainment planned for you, Mayor Broussard confided as the entourage charged through the high and middle schools.

"I saw