Bayou Bride

One

Struggling with a bag of groceries, a pot of Pothos ivy, and a carton of special ice cream parfaits fast melting in the sticky heat of the June afternoon, Sherry Mason pushed the door of her small car shut. She eyed with misgivings the flight of concrete steps which led to her second story apartment. It had been quite a day. Her boss at the St. Louis office of the Villeré Shipping Lines where she worked had a broken ankle and this had been the day he decided it was time to catch up on some of the backlog of work. Since he was still laid up in bed at home, Sherry had spent the day acting more as liaison between him and the office than as a secretary. She had zipped back and forth a dozen times carrying instructions and papers to be signed. On the last trip, she had not only been caught in a traffic jam, her own car had been struck from behind. Although the damage was minor, there had been an endless wait in the hot sun for a policeman to fill out the accident report. She had spent the entire time fending off the attentions of the man who had run into her car. Returning to the office, she discovered that she had missed several telephone calls, at least two of them from Lucien Villeré, the owner of the New Orleans based shipping line. Why he should be trying to reach her, she had no idea; she could only suppose it had something to do with her employer. Her temper had been tried yet again on the way home. At the supermarket the cash register at the checkout counter had run out of tape just as she pushed her filled buggy into place beside it. No, it was not an afternoon for feats of strength; on the other hand, she just did not have the energy to make two trips up the stairs with her purchases.

Sherry was halfway to her front door when she heard the telephone. Its jangling ring inside her apartment had a persistent sound, as if the caller had no intention of being disappointed. Fishing her key from her shoulder bag, getting it in the lock and the door open, required a juggling act worthy of a circus. It was only bad luck in the form of a loose throw rug that sent the pot of ivy flying from her grasp.

"Damn," Sherry said, and annoyance was still strong in her voice as she reached for the shrilling phone and spoke into the mouthpiece.

"Miss Mason?"

'"Yes?" Sherry tucked the receiver into her shoulder as she lifted the heavy bag of groceries onto the kitchen counter. The carton of parfaits needed to go into the freezer at once, but she could not quite reach it.

"Lucien Villeré. I was told at the shipping office that I might reach my brother Paul at this number."

Lucien Villeré, managing director of the Villeré Shipping Lines, a vast conglomerate with interests not only in river commerce and oceangoing freighters, but also in petroleum, large-scale farming, and sugar refining. As secretary to a minor official in the department dealing with river transport, Sherry was a small cog in an enormous piece of financial machinery. It was disconcerting to be singled out in this way. She had heard much of this man, but never spoken to him before. The deep tone of his voice with its seductive trace of a French accent was a surprise.

"Miss Mason?"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Villeré. Your brother is not here."

"When do you expect him?" The small space of time between his first question and her answer had apparently aroused suspicion in his mind. His tone indicated a tightly leashed impatience.

"I don't," Sherry replied. "I didn't know Paul was in St. Louis." Who had given this man her number? No doubt it was Sarah, the girl on the switchboard at the office. She worshiped power and men, not necessarily in that order.

The disbelief that greeted this information came strongly over the wire. As the silence stretched, Sherry frowned. What on earth had Sarah told this man? She was not left long in doubt.

"I understand that you have seen Paul often in the past few months?"

"I have gone out with him, yes," Sherry admitted. Paul Villeré was an attractive, fun-loving man with a Southern gentleman's appreciation of women. She had enjoyed his company when he was in St. Louis on business for the firm, but no more than that.

"You have been his -- constant companion, in fact?"

"I don't think I would put it that way," Sherry began with some heat, only to be interrupted.

"Put it how you please. It is urgent that I find my brother, and I will not tolerate interference, whatever the motive. Believe me, Miss Mason, Paul has no need of your protection. Do you, or do you not, know where he can be reached?"

Sherry hung on to her temper with the greatest difficulty. "I am not protecting Paul," she said distinctly. "I have no idea where he is. I suggest you try his usual hotel."

"I have tried it, as well as a half-dozen others where he might be staying. He was not registered."

"You are certain he is in St. Louis?"

"That was the destination he gave his secretary when he asked her to make the reservations."

"Then I can only suppose he must have found accommodation elsewhere," Sherry said, her voice rising.

"My thought exactly," Lucien Villeré replied.

Sherry caught her breath at the implication of his words. He thought Paul was staying in her apartment. In business circles, Lucien Villeré had the reputation for slashing intelligence and a rapier manner which cut straight to the heart of a problem, coupled with a complete lack of either tact or mercy where the good of the firm was concerned. This, however, was carrying plain speaking too far.

Before she could form a retort scathing enough to satisfy her, he spoke again. "All I require is for you to inform my brother that I need to speak to him, and ask him to contact me as soon as possible."

"If I see him, I will certainly give him your message," Sherry said, her voice as cold as she could make it. By a supreme effort of self-control, she refrained from slamming the receiver into its cradle as she hung up on him.

Who did this man think he was? Being a multimillionaire, and in some sense her employer, did not give him the right to make insinuations about her character or her life-style. Simply because she lived alone and saw something of a young bachelor with the reputation of a playboy did not necessarily mean that their relationship was intimate. What kind of mind did Paul's brother have? Perhaps he judged the behavior of others by his own!

With a scowl drawing her brows together above her turquoise eyes, Sherry moved to put her ice cream away. She slammed the door of the freezer with unnecessary force before turning to the rest of her groceries.

The more Sherry thought of the telephone call, the more irritated she became. It did not matter, of course, what a man several miles away -- a man whom she would probably never see -- thought of her. Still, she would have given a great deal to have the opportunity back again to straighten him out. Cold hauteur was well enough, but she wished that, employer or not, she had told him what she thought of him. The slackness and low standards of the New Morality had no appeal for her. Though she covered it with an air of candor and brisk efficiency, she was basically a moonlight-and-roses girl, as old-fashioned as they came.

What had prompted the call? Was Paul in some kind of trouble that his brother was combing St. Louis for him? She would hate to think so. He had charm, did Paul Villeré. Realizing that he knew it, and capitalized upon it when he could, did not lessen her fondness for him.

There was always the possibility, of course, that the purpose of the call was a family emergency. Paul's mother was a globe-trotting widow whose greatest enjoyment of the shipping line, which she owned with her two sons, was in traveling on the freighters owned by the company. She spent months at sea every year in the company of other retired people like herself. She had started her family late in life and was no longer young. The last time Paul had mentioned her she was in the Orient, but it was always possible that she had been taken ill.

Such an explanation did not account for the fact that Paul could not be located at his usual hotel, or his failure to let his family know his whereabouts.

A long bath scented with lavender salts did much to give Sherry a new perspective on the problem. She could shake her head with a wry smile at her earlier wrath. Changing to the casual comfort of jeans and a pullover shirt, she piled her long, honey-blonde hair on top of her head for coolness and returned to the kitchen.

She ate her dinner of broiled steak and salad with unimpaired appetite. By the time she had polished off her ice cream parfait, she had very nearly regained her usual even temper.

There was a play on television she wanted to watch. She settled down to the quiet enjoyment of the story. The final credits were rolling past when the doorbell rang. She clicked off the set on the way to answer the door.

A quick look through the peephole revealed a man on her doorstep. Of medium height, he was dark. He had crisply curling black hair, brown eyes with a gleam of humor in their depths, and a small mustache over lips that were both sensitive and sensuous. It was Paul Villeré.

Frowning, Sherry swung open the door. There was an awkward moment while the smile faded from the face of the man on the doorstep.

"Don't I rate a hello?" he inquired at last.

"Hello," Sherry said.

"May I come in?"

Sherry cocked her head to one side. "Not until I have decided if you are anything at all like your brother."

"Lucien? Has he been here?"

The response was too quick, too defensive. Under Sherry's steady regard, the color deepened beneath the olive skin of Paul's face. "No," Sherry answered. "He hasn't been here, but he called."

"I can see I have some explaining to do," Paul said with a look of mock penitence.

"Yes," Sherry agreed, an irresistible smile beginning to curve her mouth. "And you can't do it on the doorstep. You may as well come in and have a cup of coffee."

"Your hospitality overwhelms me," Paul said, grinning as he stepped into the room. "I don't suppose you have anything stronger to offer to bolster my courage."

"Afraid not."

"Then I'll have to make do with that weak stuff you call coffee. I keep telling you, if you would only come to New Orleans, I'd show you what real coffee is like."

Sherry's apartment consisted of only two rooms, a modest bedroom and a large living area that featured a sitting room at one end and a well-appointed kitchen on the other with a built-in dining nook dividing them. Paul followed her into the kitchen, where he stood leaning against the cabinet.

"Don't change the subject," Sherry told him, filling a kettle and setting it on the range top. "You were going to explain."

"First of all, tell me what Lucien said to you."

"So you can make your excuses accordingly?"

"No, so I can find out what has put you in such a rage."

Sherry turned to stare at him. "I'm not in a rage?"

Paul smiled and reached out to tweak a tendril of honey-colored hair that had escaped her top knot. "No? You're as close to it as I've ever seen. I hate to sound like a grade-B movie and tell you how gorgeous it makes you, but --"

"Then don't!"

"Touchy, aren't you, for somebody that's not at all hot under the collar?"

"Oh, all right," Sherry said, laughing a little, and went on to tell him what had passed between his brother and herself.

The teasing light died out of Paul's eyes, to be replaced by a frown. "I'm sorry that you were insulted," he said. "Lucien sometimes jumps to conclusions."

"Lucien," Sherry said distinctly, "is rude, arrogant, and overbearing."

"He doesn't mean to be," Paul said. "It's just his manner. Half his attitude was probably caused by his irritation with me. He doesn't approve of my leaving New Orleans at this particular time."

"So I understand, though I don't know why," Sherry said pointedly, and turned to pour the water as the kettle began to boil. Steam rose from the prepared coffeepot. Taking it up with a pair of mugs in the other hand, she moved to the dining nook and sat down at the table.

"It's a long story," Paul said, sliding into place on the bench across from her.

"I have plenty of time," Sherry said.

"It started about six years ago, the summer before I enrolled at LSU. In New Orleans, the French Creole families -- that is, the families of the French people who settled in Louisiana over two hundred years ago, French men and women born outside of the mother country -- have always been close. Intermarriage was a necessity in the old days, before the Americans came. Then it became a defense, and now, finally, it has achieved the status of a tradition. That's all right, as far as it goes. One of the families closest to the Villerés has always been the Dubois family. My great-grandfather went to Europe on his grand tour with a Dubois, they had plantations that marched side by side along the Mississippi. My grandfather fought in the trenches in France with a Dubois in World War I, and so it goes. Now my mother's best friend is an elderly Dubois woman who lives next door to our townhouse on the shores of Lake Pontchartrain. The summer I was nineteen, her granddaughter came to visit. She was only fourteen or fifteen, a pretty, quiet child who used to follow me around. I took her sailing on the lake, we fished, swam, water-skied, played tennis, attended a few of the dances at the country club. Aimee was incredibly sweet and gentle. I thought after a few weeks that I was in love. We talked about getting married when we were older. I don't know, maybe Aimee said something to her grandmother about it. Her parents came and took her away to school in Switzerland. One day she was there, and the next she was gone. We were told we could write to each other, but you know how that goes. We exchanged letters for a while, then gradually there seemed to be less and less we had in common. After a time we stopped writing."

"Yes, I can see that," Sherry said. She poured the coffee and pushed cream and sugar toward him.

"I suppose it's a common enough story. Anyway, Aimee completed her education and then attended a finishing school. Now, after six years, she is coming home again to New Orleans. Her grandmother is giving a welcoming home party for her, and I, the faithful suitor, am expected to be on hand. Everybody seems to think that if I don't show up it's going to be like Evangeline looking for her Gabriel all over again. That Aimee is going to go into a decline like some heroine in a Victorian novel if I'm not there."

"Oh, come on," Sherry said, a smile in her eyes.

Paul had the grace to laugh at himself. "Well, maybe it's not that bad. But words like duty and moral obligation are flying thick and fast down in New Orleans, I can ten you! If I don't watch out, I'll find myself tied to a sweet worshipful young thing who cries if you look at her the wrong way."

Sherry sipped her coffee. "Wouldn't you like to see this girl again, at least out of curiosity?"

"Sure I would, if that was all there was to it. I'd like to see how she turned out, but I don't see why I should be bound by something I said six years ago when I was only half-grown myself."

Sherry slanted him a quick look over her coffee cup. "You did propose marriage, then?"

"I don't know," Paul said with a weary shake of his head. "I guess I must have, but who can remember after all this time? I seem to recall talking about where we would live and what we would do. Even then, Aimee wanted to buy one of these old plantation houses and modernize it, like the old Villeré Plantation Lucien fixed up as a retreat. Young as she was, Aimee knew where she wanted to live, how many children she intended to have, and whom she wanted for her husband."

"I believe you're afraid of her," Sherry teased.

Paul flung her a sardonic look. "Go ahead, laugh," he said. "It's not your freedom that's at stake."

"No," she agreed, attempting to lift him out of his air of gloom, "but then I don't go around proposing to people."

"No," he sighed. "What I really ought to do is propose to somebody else. If I had a fiancée, Aimee would realize there was no way we could pick up where we left off. I wouldn't have to say a word."

"The only trouble with that," Sherry pointed out, "is that you would only make more trouble for yourself, since you would have another proposal to wiggle your way out of, another woman to avoid."

"True," he said, his eyes narrowing with sudden thought, "unless I proposed to you. If I asked you to marry me, Sherry love, you wouldn't agree, would you?"

"What are you talking about?"

"You've told me often enough that I'm shallow and immature, that I take my responsibilities too lightly, and that I have precious little attraction for you as a man."

"Did I say all that?" Sherry asked, nonplussed.

"At one time or another. But you haven't answered my question. You wouldn't marry me, would you?"

"No, I don't think I would."

"Good, then you can be my fiancée!"

"You," Sherry said with a shake of her head, "are out of your mind. There is absolutely no reason to go to such lengths. This Aimee may not have any idea of holding you to your word."

"You're wrong there. She wrote her grandmother that the summer she spent with me held some of her most precious memories and that she was anxious to see me again."

"I don't see anything so terrible in that."

"Put it together with the fact that her grandmother is having the family silver -- heirloom sterling -- taken out of storage and polished as a gift for her granddaughter."

"That is a bit more damaging," Sherry admitted.

"Especially when you consider that her grandmother refused to pass the silver down to her son because he married an American girl instead of a Creole."

Sherry stared at him. "You mean Aimee has gained her grandmother's approval then with her choice? I begin to see why you're nervous."

"Nervous," Paul said, "is not the word. Let me tell you the other subtle hint I was given of what is expected of me. Last evening, Lucien called me into the study and solemnly handed over the Villeré betrothal ring. Here, let me show you."

Paul drew a ring box of ancient, worn green velvet from his shirt pocket. Releasing the catch, he passed it across the table to Sherry. Inside was a ring set in gold so pure it had a soft rose tint. The setting was in the shape of a flower, a blue forget-me-not formed of enameled petals outlined in sapphires and dewed with diamonds.

Sherry caught her breath. "It is beautiful, so -- so exquisite."

"There's a bracelet that also goes with it. The Villeré brides receive the bracelet on the day of the official announcement of the engagement. They wear both it and the ring until their wedding day, when they are replaced by something a little more modern."

"I'm not sure I would want anything more modern," Sherry said with a bemused shake of her head. She glanced up quickly. "That is, of course, if I were a Villeré bride, which I am not, nor am I going to pretend to be!"

"You are a hard woman, Sherry Mason. What would it hurt if you scheduled your vacation next week, came down to New Orleans, and let me introduce you to everyone as my bride-to-be? You could have a relaxing vacation. I would take you wherever you wanted to go, show you anything and everything you wanted to see. We could feast on seafood at some of the most famous restaurants in the world, dance, listen to jazz, take a riverboat cruise --"

"You can't be serious," Sherry interrupted. "What would I tell my boss and the people I work with? It's certain to become known that I visited New Orleans pretending to be your fiancée. I couldn't just come back and say nothing. Everybody would think -- they would think we --"

"Dear Sherry, what they would think is that you came down for fun and games with me. I hadn't thought of that. What you would have to do is keep the betrothal ring, show it around at the office. Later, when it's all over, you can give it back and tell everybody it didn't work out, you couldn't take my philandering ways or something. It's not a big thing."

"It looks big to me," she told him, her eyes level. "Too big, as a matter of fact. I just couldn't go through with it, I'm no good at lying, and worse at acting a part."

Paul stared at her a long moment, then he sighed. "I was afraid of that."

"I think what you should do is call Lucien and tell him you're on your way back home. Go to this party, see Aimee, and tell her candidly that you think the two of you should start all over. If something develops, fine; if not -- well, that's fine too."

"I would hate to hurt her."

"If Aimee is the kind of person you say she is, she would prefer to be hurt now, when it can be mended, instead of later, after you were married, when it would be much harder."

The ring of the telephone cut across her words. Sherry slipped from her seat to answer it. As she lifted the receiver she glanced at the kitchen clock and was surprised to find it was nearly midnight.

"Miss Mason?"

The deep, clipped tones were unmistakable. "Yes, Mr. Villeré?" Sherry said, flicking a quick look at Paul.

"I trust I did not disturb your rest?"

"No," Sherry answered. If it had not been for the thread of purest irony in his voice she would have told him at once that Paul was with her. As it was, she waited perversely for him to ask for his brother.

"May I speak to Paul?"

The man could have at least had the diplomacy to ask whether his brother was there. His calm assumption that he was, at that time of night, was infuriating. She took a deep breath. "Your brother is here now, Mr. Villeré, but before you talk to him, I would like to clear up a misunderstanding. First of all, he arrived less than an hour ago, and second, he is not staying."

There was a small silence at the other end of the line. Finally Lucien Villeré replied, "My dear Miss Mason. Your morals are no concern of mine, and I have neither the time nor the inclination to discuss them. Would you please let me speak to Paul?"

What Lucien Villeré had said was probably no more than the exact truth. Knowing that did not help Sherry's exacerbated feelings. Not trusting herself to speak, she thrust the phone at Paul, her eyes sea-green with anger and her lovely lips pressed together.

Paul shot her a worried look before he turned his attention to the instrument in his hand. He spoke into it, then stood listening for several seconds. Sherry walked away into the living room to give him privacy and to collect herself. Behind her, she could hear Paul speaking.

"Yes, I understand the problem, but I thought she was supposed to arrive next week. All right, but I don't see why you can't pick her up, or her grandmother, for that matter. What? Why would she ask for me? Well, you can suppose what you please, I can't help that. Anyway, it doesn't matter. I don't believe my fiancée would approve of me meeting a young woman, even a childhood friend, at the airport. She is the jealous type. Who? Why, Sherry Mason, of course; why else do you think I made a beeline for St. Louis as soon as I saw the way the wind was blowing --? Yes, well, sudden it may be, but that's what happens when you start putting pressure on people. You might try to remember that, Lucien."

Sherry swung around, staring at Paul. He grinned at her, unrepentant, holding out a hand to ward her off as she started toward him. Abruptly his grin faded. "What do you mean by that remark? Sherry is no particular type. She is warm and beautiful, and I'll be lucky if she consents to come anywhere near New Orleans and my family after talking to you, big brother."

The conspiratorial wink Paul threw Sherry barely registered. She stood still as Paul went on. "If you really want to know what I think, I'll tell you. I think you had better get ready to escort Aimee Dubois around for the next few weeks. Maybe she will accept a substitute. Remember you are still available in that department, old man, and I don't doubt her grandmother would be just as happy to settle for the elder son as a husband for her darling. Yes, I know you are a good twelve years her senior. Look at it this way; some girls like older men -- Now, now, don't get touchy. Don't you like that trapped feeling? Despite the jokes, I am perfectly serious about one thing, Lucien. The only girl I am taking to Aimee's welcome home party is Sherry, so you had better get used to the idea!"

Sherry took a step forward. "Paul, no," she whispered, but it was a feeble denial. She could not call a halt now, could not expose the trick to Lucien Villeré's brand of cold sarcasm, or give him more reason to hold her in contempt. Every particle of pride she possessed rebelled at the idea. There was also, only partially acknowledged in a corner of her mind, a human need to repay Paul's brother in some small way for his scathing assessment of her.

Paul reached out, drawing her into the curve of his arm to give her a grateful hug. Sherry met his eyes with a wry smile, allowing him to take her silence for acquiescence, though she knew with a fearful certainty that she was going to regret it.

Copyright © 1978 by Maxine Patrick