Bayou Born (Fleur de Lis Series) (21 page)

The food-service worker gave her a curious glance when handing over her plate. Branna set it on the tray next to her drink, shrugged, then paid the cashier and headed for the dining area already crowded with students and other faculty members.

In the far corner, she spied an empty table. She made her way through the maze and sat. When James arrived, a table of co-eds erupted into giggles. They whispered and cast glances in his direction.

“You asked me to join you for lunch, not psychoanalysis, Branna. I’m not willing to discuss your theory here. Let’s find something else to talk about for now.”

“Like the giggling co-eds eyeing you?” She smiled brightly at the girls sneaking glances.

“No.”

“Like the silver baby rattle on your desk?”

He straightened in his chair. Had she hit a nerve?

“No.”

“Then, what would you like to talk about?”

“Do you want to meet some friends of mine for a beer next Saturday night?”

“Is it a date?”

“Just a night out with friends.”

“Not a date? Then exactly what
type
of evening are you talking about?”

He clearly ignored her dig. His eyes twinkled, though he tried to hide a grin. “I guess you’ll just have to come along and find out.”

Chapter 22

Branna jerked back the shower curtain and yanked a bath towel off the shelf. Last night, she’d fallen asleep before setting the alarm. She hated being late for anything; it was a sign of disrespect.

Wrapping the towel around her body, she stepped from the tub and grabbed a hand towel for her dripping hair. From her bedroom, her cell phone chimed. Clutching the towel to her body, she dashed to check caller ID, but she had no time talk to anyone, including her cousin, who hadn’t called back last night.

She blamed Biloxi for her need to rush. “If you’d have called me back, I wouldn’t have forgotten to set my alarm,” she muttered tersely.

The phone chimed again. As she reached for it, movement outside her bedroom window stopped her cold—a silhouette of a man. In a few quick steps to the window, she intended to flip the plantation shutters closed. She recognized the person peering inside, his nose pressed against the glass.

“Oh Lordy! You scared the crap out of me!” She hollered at Bill, the painting contractor. Yesterday afternoon, she’d inked her signature on a contract for him to paint the outside of the house.

“I rang the doorbell. No one answered. I knocked. You didn’t come to the door. Your car’s still in the drive. I knew you had to be here. I came to see if you were dead or something.”

She winced. Bill yelled loud enough for the entire neighborhood to hear.

“Are you a painter or a peeping Tom? I’m in a hurry. Can’t you start painting in the front of the house?” Precious minutes ticked by. She had to hurry or she’d arrive late for class.

“Would love to, but your import is in the way. Don’t think you want the metallic blue dotted with white house paint.”

“Please, just go wait in the drive. I’ll be about fifteen minutes.”

She snapped the shutters closed and finished drying off. Her clothes, draped over the chair last night, a habit she perfected so she never had to think about what to wear before her first cup of coffee, made dressing easy. This morning she prized her organizational skills and reached for her skirt and top.

Blow-drying was quick work with short hair. She finished with a paddle brush, then stood over her antique vanity, a gift from her Covington grandparents, to apply makeup, which timing herself, she managed in under two short minutes. Finishing with a soft peachy lip-gloss, she ran to the bathroom to wash foundation her fingers. She’d never gotten the knack of using a makeup sponge. When she grabbed the cold-water tap and twisted, the faucet came off her in hand. Water sprayed a steady stream, down her turquois blouse and brown skirt. The water gushed. She froze and stared.

Her reflection in the mirror showed disaster.

Makeup ruined.

Hair wet.

Clothes needed changing.

Panicked, she bent to look under the sink. Found the shut-off valves, cranked them both until the water cut off.

Ding-Dong.
The doorbell rang.

Her cell phone chimed again.

“Crap!”

She raced to the front door. “I told you that I’d be fifteen minutes. Can’t you keep your pants on?” she shouted, pulling open the front door. Her next-door neighbor, the elderly and very proper Mrs. Campbell, stared back.

“Oh, gosh. I’m sorry Mrs. Campbell. I’m running late for work. How may I help you?”

“I just wanted to be sure this man wasn’t trying to break in. I already called the police.”

“The police?”

Branna opened the door wider, stepped out onto the porch next to Mrs. Campbell, and waved Bill over.

“Mrs. Campbell, this is Bill, my painter. If the police come, please tell them it’s a case of mistaken identity. He’s legit. Now, I’ve got to change for work.” She closed the door on the pair and headed for her bedroom. Her darn cell phone started chiming again. She shoved it into her purse. Whoever called could wait.

After handling details with Bill and finally dressed for work, she took a deep breath and turned the key in the ignition. Her old Volvo started with a purr. She put the car in reverse and backed down the drive. If she hurried, she might just make it on time. If nothing else, the adrenaline running in her veins would push the car to the college. Tardiness was an embarrassment she wanted to avoid. Especially on the second day of school. She was probably more anxious than her students about the semester.

The bright morning sun shone in her eyes as she drove due east. She flipped the visor down and turned the radio to classical music, something to settle her racing pulse. Checking the speedometer, she slowed. A speeding ticket would definitely make her later. As a distraction from the 35 mph speed limit, she checked her cell phone log.

Steven. Steven. Steven.

Couldn’t he take no for an answer? She had bigger issues to deal with than his ego, like finding a plumber. She’d ask Sadie or James or maybe Vivian for a recommendation. If luck smiled on her, though after the morning she’d had she wondered if luck had left her high and dry—more like low and wet—the plumber could meet her at the house at lunchtime.

Once on campus, she turned into the closest commuter parking lot and found the first empty space. As faculty, she had a reserved spot in a designated lot, but that was on the other side of campus. Not enough time to drive there and hoof it to her class on time. She parked, then sprinted across the street, by-passed her office, and made a beeline for her classroom. The
clack-clack
from her heels ricocheted in the mostly empty hall, which required careful navigation to avoid falling on the newly polished floor. Pausing outside the classroom, she took a moment to catch her breath. When she had changed from a skirt to pants, they called for much higher heels. That made staying upright and movement beyond a turtle’s pace difficult.

“Good morning class.” She breezed in across the threshold. “Let’s get started.”

The students’ chatter continued. A female student from the first row jumped up and grabbed something from the back of a seat. She met Branna at her desk as she pulled the roll call list from her binder. The student hovered close. So close that Branna could smell the lilac soap and mint mouthwash on the younger woman.

“Miss Lind. I don’t want to embarrass you, but please take my hoodie.” The girl’s face reddened.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m Crystal Cabot, Miss Lind.”

“Thank you for the offer, but I’m perfectly fine. It’s not cold in here.” She started to move around Crystal to the front of the desk, but Crystal grabbed her arm. Behind her, the students were quieting. Someone snickered, which caused the hair on the back of Branna’s neck to rise.

“Miss Cabot, is there a problem?” she asked warily.

“It’s not me Miss Lind. It’s you.” The girl raised her hand close to her chest, wiggled her fingers and pointed discreetly to the front of Branna’s pink blouse.

Branna looked down and gasped. Dampness had seeped from her bra on to her shirt and made two prominent darkened spots. Shaken, she grabbed the hoodie from Crystal.

“Thank you.” She pushed her arms through the sleeves and zipped up the jacket. And she’d thought being late would be her worst embarrassment of the day. Luck had abandoned her without so much as a backward glance. Thank goodness the damp shirt scene happened here rather than Bayou Petite, otherwise, it was one more thing she’d never live down at home.

Crystal smiled and nodded, then took her seat. Branna hoped no one else had noticed. An older male student winked at her when she leaned against her desk. To hide the rising heat in her cheeks, she held the student list in front of her.

“Please answer when I call your name.” Professionalism dictated that she ignore her own embarrassing discomfort and teach.

The time couldn’t pass fast enough for her. In the final minute before class ended, the older male student raised his hand.

“Miss Lind?”

“Mr…?” She scanned the seating chart. “Mr. Ashford. Yes?”

“Are we going to discuss non-verbal communication?”

Was she walking into a trap? Was he somehow baiting her? “It’s covered in the syllabus, Mr. Ashford.”

“I know.” The man grinned. “I just thought maybe you were trying to get to the topic sooner. You’ve provided a good example today all through class.”

There were several snickers.

“Class dismissed.”

She left the room ahead of her students. When she reached the English department’s office, she pushed open the door and stopped. Sadie sat at her desk with her fingers flying over a keyboard as though an accomplished pianist. She sported a new short haircut that looked all too familiar. However, it made Sadie’s face look much rounder.

Flattered, Branna grinned. “Good morning, Sadie. I need advice.” She headed for her office with the key in hand.

Sadie jumped up and followed. “How can I help?”

“By the way, like you’re new haircut. I need the name and number of a plumber. I have a situation with my bathroom that needs immediate attention. You know everyone in town.”

“Well, there’s good. There’s fast. There’s good and fast. Which do you need?”

“Good to know there are three plumber options. I need the one who’s going to be at my house at twelve fifteen so I can let him in, trust him alone inside, and fix my bathroom faucet without breaking anything. Oh, and do it for a reasonable price.”

Sadie looked up at the ceiling, puffed out her cheeks, and tapped her index finger against her pursed lips. Branna squelched a giggle. Sadie looked like a middle-aged chipmunk with a bowling-ball haircut.

“Lester Sullivan.”

“Lester Sullivan it is. I’ll take whomever you recommend. I trust you. Please give me his number, and I’ll call him now.”

“Well, since it’s a bit of an emergency, I’ll call him for you. That way he’s sure to show. He’s my brother-in-law. You can trust him. I promise.”

“Thanks for handling that for me. It is above the call of duty. I’ve another class next period, but I’ll be there by twelve fifteen. Let me make it up to you, I’ll buy you lunch tomorrow.”

“No lunch. This is the least I can do after our misunderstanding. You know. About your engagement.”

Branna nodded and hoped Steven would never come up again. “I insist. Let me buy.”

“Well...if you insist.”

“Done,” she said. She opened her office door and stepped inside. Paper crunched under her heels. More messages from Steven? She closed her door halfway and hobbled to her chair to pull the papers off her heels. The harassment had to stop. She needed to figure out a way to handle Steven. If she continued to ignore him, he’d push until he sweet-talked Sadie into something drastic. He’d pulled stunts before. Would reason work with him? If the past was any indicator, probably not.

If not, she’d call Uncle Peter again and ask for more advice. Last time, she’d hired “the Big Gun,” her nickname for Uncle Peter, he had a chat, attorney to attorney, with Steven. Afterward, her ex-fiancé had left her alone…for a while.

Steven’s stunt last November had scared her and sent her running for the Big Gun. She remembered the incident all too well. A rainy night after she had finished teaching a class at the Senior Center and only a few students mingled in the hall, she investigated someone whistling an eerie tune. The sound echoed from the hall into the classroom where she sat reading essays. When she stepped out of the classroom and into the hall, the man continued to whistle as he strode purposefully in her direction, as though he had waited for her to appear. He carried folded papers.

“Branna Lind?”

“Yes,” she answered hesitantly.

“You’ve been served.” He handed her papers, then walked away whistling a funeral march.

She’d listened enough to Steven’s attorney-speak to know what “served” meant. She glanced over the papers—suit papers—alleging breach of contract. Steven wanted a million dollars! Stunned, she raced home to Fleur de Lis and called her father who was at their beach house in Biloxi. He calmed her down and agreed to meet her at Uncle Peter’s law office.

The next morning, after a sleepless night, her anger burned on a short fuse. She marched in and took a seat in the chair in front of Uncle Peter’s desk. Her father sat next to her and patted her hand. When Uncle Peter read over the papers, he chuckled. She wanted to hit him.