searching for reasons which do not exist. His papa has persuaded him that marriage is for the best.” Mama LeBlanc patted Josée’s shoulder. “There. You can put your other dress on. This one will be fine for the wedding. Perhaps you can find Edouard and bring him a piece of that pie you made for supper last night.”
Josée’s pulse thudded in her ears. “I don’t think pie will convince Edouard.”
“Go. Speak to him. I have been married many years, and I know this: Good conversation and a slice of pie cure many things.”
Minutes later, Josée headed toward the bayou cabin. She clutched a plate of pie covered with a cloth napkin. She felt as if the teche waited, coiled and ready to strike, as she approached the cabin. When she rounded the corner, she saw Edouard stretched out in his hammock, his eyes closed. So the teche sleeps .
Josée cleared her throat. “ Pardon , I brought you some pie.”
Edouard opened his eyes and sat bolt upright, as if embarrassed to be caught lounging. “Merci.”
She could not gauge his expression. He took the plate from her hands, and Josée watched him taste the pie. She tried not to grip the edges of her apron. She wanted him to say something. Why wouldn’t he? Should she speak first? An inner nudge suggested she sit on the porch step. And so she did, though keeping silent about the pie and the more urgent matter of the wedding nearly smothered her.
“The pie’s good. You made it?” came Edouard’s voice. He settled onto the step next to her and took another bite.
“Oui. Mama said I should share it with you, and she said that you talked to your papa.” Josée watched the bayou drift silently by. She took a deep breath and let the dark green canopy of trees calm her.
Mon Père, help me. I want whatever You have for us, Edouard and me. Help him see it, too . She heard a bird’s call far away through the trees.
He finished the pie, acted as if he were going to lick the plate, and then stopped. Josée would have chuckled if Edouard’s silence hadn’t made her want to drag conversation out of the man.
“I … my papa says I am much like his papa, who built this cabin.” Edouard gazed out at the dark water. “He lost many things. His home in Acadia. My papa’s mama, Capucine—she, too, knew loss.”
Josée watched his hands. He placed the plate on the top step behind them then rested his chin on folded fingers.
“Jacques, he is like Papa, so full of joie de vivre .” Edouard turned to face Josée, and she could scarcely breathe. She had never been within arm’s length of the man, and now he seemed to loom over her, although he was sitting on the top step. “I think more than I speak. But you would not miss such liveliness here? My life is simple.”
“It’s—it’s peaceful here.” Josée realized she was studying the scar on Edouard’s face, dulled by stubble. “And I would not miss Jacques’s liveliness so much. When we marry, I will not think of him again.” She shifted her gaze to his eyes. Their brown depths almost begged her to explore the secrets inside.
I haven’t wanted to kiss anyone since—
Edouard wished that he no longer thought of Celine but of the young woman who had willingly come and offered him part of herself with a simple piece of pie. He had sensed Josée’s urgency to speak and gave her credit for her silence. Her mouth opened and closed like a fish several times while he ate the pie.
Now while she waited, her mouth, well, it practically begged for a kiss. Thoughts of fish left his mind.
He stood and tried to keep his wits about him. This was Josée Broussard, who tutored his younger siblings and had somehow grown up when he wasn’t looking. And soon she would become his wife.
“Josée.” Edouard bent, took one of her hands in his, and pulled her to her feet. “My papa has arranged for us to marry. I doubted his choice at first, but then I do not trust easily. I cannot promise you much. I have little. But”—he
Josée’s pulse thudded in her ears. “I don’t think pie will convince Edouard.”
“Go. Speak to him. I have been married many years, and I know this: Good conversation and a slice of pie cure many things.”
Minutes later, Josée headed toward the bayou cabin. She clutched a plate of pie covered with a cloth napkin. She felt as if the teche waited, coiled and ready to strike, as she approached the cabin. When she rounded the corner, she saw Edouard stretched out in his hammock, his eyes closed. So the teche sleeps .
Josée cleared her throat. “ Pardon , I brought you some pie.”
Edouard opened his eyes and sat bolt upright, as if embarrassed to be caught lounging. “Merci.”
She could not gauge his expression. He took the plate from her hands, and Josée watched him taste the pie. She tried not to grip the edges of her apron. She wanted him to say something. Why wouldn’t he? Should she speak first? An inner nudge suggested she sit on the porch step. And so she did, though keeping silent about the pie and the more urgent matter of the wedding nearly smothered her.
“The pie’s good. You made it?” came Edouard’s voice. He settled onto the step next to her and took another bite.
“Oui. Mama said I should share it with you, and she said that you talked to your papa.” Josée watched the bayou drift silently by. She took a deep breath and let the dark green canopy of trees calm her.
Mon Père, help me. I want whatever You have for us, Edouard and me. Help him see it, too . She heard a bird’s call far away through the trees.
He finished the pie, acted as if he were going to lick the plate, and then stopped. Josée would have chuckled if Edouard’s silence hadn’t made her want to drag conversation out of the man.
“I … my papa says I am much like his papa, who built this cabin.” Edouard gazed out at the dark water. “He lost many things. His home in Acadia. My papa’s mama, Capucine—she, too, knew loss.”
Josée watched his hands. He placed the plate on the top step behind them then rested his chin on folded fingers.
“Jacques, he is like Papa, so full of joie de vivre .” Edouard turned to face Josée, and she could scarcely breathe. She had never been within arm’s length of the man, and now he seemed to loom over her, although he was sitting on the top step. “I think more than I speak. But you would not miss such liveliness here? My life is simple.”
“It’s—it’s peaceful here.” Josée realized she was studying the scar on Edouard’s face, dulled by stubble. “And I would not miss Jacques’s liveliness so much. When we marry, I will not think of him again.” She shifted her gaze to his eyes. Their brown depths almost begged her to explore the secrets inside.
I haven’t wanted to kiss anyone since—
Edouard wished that he no longer thought of Celine but of the young woman who had willingly come and offered him part of herself with a simple piece of pie. He had sensed Josée’s urgency to speak and gave her credit for her silence. Her mouth opened and closed like a fish several times while he ate the pie.
Now while she waited, her mouth, well, it practically begged for a kiss. Thoughts of fish left his mind.
He stood and tried to keep his wits about him. This was Josée Broussard, who tutored his younger siblings and had somehow grown up when he wasn’t looking. And soon she would become his wife.
“Josée.” Edouard bent, took one of her hands in his, and pulled her to her feet. “My papa has arranged for us to marry. I doubted his choice at first, but then I do not trust easily. I cannot promise you much. I have little. But”—he
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