at you.” He pulled back and gave her a nodding appraisal. “That short hair’s a little citified, but reckon you still look like my favorite niece.”
Resa smiled. “I’m your only niece. And what’s with this sick business? Maderes don’t get sick.” They really didn’t. She’d once made a list of everyone she knew who’d died. Among the alarming ly long tally of dead grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins, none had succumbed to illness. They had accidents. A few flat-out disappeared, probably eaten by gators. Wild boars gored a few. Some drowned. A scary number of fatal snake bites.
Resa figured the longer she stayed around Dogtown, the greater her chances of dying some horrific death by water or wildlife.
“Emile, did you tell Resa the news?” Jeanne wore a long-sleeved tee covered in black sequins that reflected the Christmas tree lights in dizzying flashes. “About Chandler Caillou?”
Resa gro a ned inwardly. She’d wondered how long it would take for someone to mention the guy her family had been foisting on her since she was a toddler, or at least as early as she could remember. There were honest-to-God pictures, which Jeanne liked to trot out at family gatherings, of Resa and Chan tumbling around in diapers and sleeping side-by-side in a crib. She’d hoped that once she left Dogtown and settled in New Orleans , Jeanne would give up on her conviction that a Resa-Chan union was inevitable. Apparently not.
“I figured she’d hear about it soon enough.” Uncle Aim rested an arm on her shoulders as if to protect her from whatever earth-shattering news Jeanne was about to impart.
“He moved home two months ago. Took over his cousin Mike’s job as the gator man for the parish.” Jean ne leaned toward her and said in an exaggerated whisper, “And he’s still single.”
The subtext of that was: So are you, missy, and you’re creeping toward thirty .
Terrific. “What happened to Mike?” Resa bet it wasn’t illness. The Caillous didn’t get sick, either.
Jeanne’s brow wrinkled. “Think he drowned. Did Mike Caillou drown?” She addressed her question to the living room full of people and got several affirmatives. “Anyway, you know Chandler had been living in Baton Rouge, doing some kind of important work with the state fisheries office—been up there since before Katrina.”
Resa wondered why, if Chandler Caillou had a good-paying state job, he’d come back to Dogtown to wrangle nuisance alligators. But if she asked, her relatives would assume she cared, which would fire up the rumors. Never mind that she hadn’t seen him since high school or held a meaningful conversation with him since they hit puberty. If she showed any interest whatsoever, the family would have her engaged to the man by sundown.
~3~
The knock on the White Castle door jarred the walls enough to send a hideous photo of doe-eyed puppies bouncing across the bubblegum-pink carpet, cracking the glass in the frame. Resa kicked it out of the way. This trailer had been redecorated by her mother, without question. Puppies and lace and a dozen shades of of pink. It had Jeanne written all over it.
“Sorry, Madere’s doesn’t open until nine and…” Damn. She recognized Chan Caillou immediately, but her memories were the “before” picture and the man at the foot of the trailer steps was definitely the “after.” If anyone had told her how he’d grown up and filled out she might have been more interested in Chandler Caillou’s return to Dogtown. Or not. She refused to get invested. Dogtown was like quicksand; unless one kept moving, getting stuck was inevitable, followed by sinking and suffocation.
“Theresa Ann Madere. Heard you were back, but wasn’t sure I believed it.” He was taller than Resa remembered. The blond hair was longer and sun-streaked, curling over the collar of his flannel shirt. Way more muscled, in a good way. But the calm, moss-green eyes hadn’t changed, or his quiet way of
Resa smiled. “I’m your only niece. And what’s with this sick business? Maderes don’t get sick.” They really didn’t. She’d once made a list of everyone she knew who’d died. Among the alarming ly long tally of dead grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins, none had succumbed to illness. They had accidents. A few flat-out disappeared, probably eaten by gators. Wild boars gored a few. Some drowned. A scary number of fatal snake bites.
Resa figured the longer she stayed around Dogtown, the greater her chances of dying some horrific death by water or wildlife.
“Emile, did you tell Resa the news?” Jeanne wore a long-sleeved tee covered in black sequins that reflected the Christmas tree lights in dizzying flashes. “About Chandler Caillou?”
Resa gro a ned inwardly. She’d wondered how long it would take for someone to mention the guy her family had been foisting on her since she was a toddler, or at least as early as she could remember. There were honest-to-God pictures, which Jeanne liked to trot out at family gatherings, of Resa and Chan tumbling around in diapers and sleeping side-by-side in a crib. She’d hoped that once she left Dogtown and settled in New Orleans , Jeanne would give up on her conviction that a Resa-Chan union was inevitable. Apparently not.
“I figured she’d hear about it soon enough.” Uncle Aim rested an arm on her shoulders as if to protect her from whatever earth-shattering news Jeanne was about to impart.
“He moved home two months ago. Took over his cousin Mike’s job as the gator man for the parish.” Jean ne leaned toward her and said in an exaggerated whisper, “And he’s still single.”
The subtext of that was: So are you, missy, and you’re creeping toward thirty .
Terrific. “What happened to Mike?” Resa bet it wasn’t illness. The Caillous didn’t get sick, either.
Jeanne’s brow wrinkled. “Think he drowned. Did Mike Caillou drown?” She addressed her question to the living room full of people and got several affirmatives. “Anyway, you know Chandler had been living in Baton Rouge, doing some kind of important work with the state fisheries office—been up there since before Katrina.”
Resa wondered why, if Chandler Caillou had a good-paying state job, he’d come back to Dogtown to wrangle nuisance alligators. But if she asked, her relatives would assume she cared, which would fire up the rumors. Never mind that she hadn’t seen him since high school or held a meaningful conversation with him since they hit puberty. If she showed any interest whatsoever, the family would have her engaged to the man by sundown.
~3~
The knock on the White Castle door jarred the walls enough to send a hideous photo of doe-eyed puppies bouncing across the bubblegum-pink carpet, cracking the glass in the frame. Resa kicked it out of the way. This trailer had been redecorated by her mother, without question. Puppies and lace and a dozen shades of of pink. It had Jeanne written all over it.
“Sorry, Madere’s doesn’t open until nine and…” Damn. She recognized Chan Caillou immediately, but her memories were the “before” picture and the man at the foot of the trailer steps was definitely the “after.” If anyone had told her how he’d grown up and filled out she might have been more interested in Chandler Caillou’s return to Dogtown. Or not. She refused to get invested. Dogtown was like quicksand; unless one kept moving, getting stuck was inevitable, followed by sinking and suffocation.
“Theresa Ann Madere. Heard you were back, but wasn’t sure I believed it.” He was taller than Resa remembered. The blond hair was longer and sun-streaked, curling over the collar of his flannel shirt. Way more muscled, in a good way. But the calm, moss-green eyes hadn’t changed, or his quiet way of
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