bit more independent. Darcy lived on her own, held down a part-time job and was attending beauty school. In the year they’d been dating, she’d inspired Gabriel to want the same level of independence, regardless of whether he was ready for it. Marjo still had to remind him to eat, to turn off the stove. Despite what Darcy or Gabriel thought, she knew her brother wasn’t yet ready to make that leap.
Marjo sighed and shook her head. Lately she felt she was losing that battle.
Despite the hot October day, Cally looked cool and fresh. Maybe it was her blond hair or her easy, friendly manner, but she never seemed bothered by anything, especially not the heat. “I heard you had a showdown at the OK Opera House.” She mock-fired two pistols with her hands.
Marjo laughed. “Word travels fast.”
“ Chérie, dis is de bayou,” she said, affecting her best Louisiana accent. “You can’t sneeze around here without half de town t’inkin’ you’re dyin’ of typhoid five minutes later.”
Marjo laughed. “True.”
“So tell me, is this hunk who owns the opera house as gorgeous as half the female population of Indigo made him sound?”
“He’s not attractive at all.” Marjo turned her face away, busy pouring them each a glass of iced tea.
“Liar.” She followed Marjo out of the kitchen and into the front room, where the tall multipaned mullion windows faced the porch and the picturesque view of the deep, lush and vibrant bayou.
Marjo paused at the window for a moment. A hundred years ago her great-grandfather had built this little cottage. But when his son, her grandfather, had started Savoy Funeral Home, the Savoy families had moved into the spacious apartment upstairs, to be ready at a moment’s notice for a family in grief. Marjo and Gabriel’s father, Timothy, had been the second generation to run the funeral home, which had come to be known as aplace that catered to traditional Cajun values and traditions.
But when Timothy Savoy had brought his Atlanta-born bride to Indigo, Elaine had refused to use the funeral parlor as a home. She’d never spent a night there. The day they returned from their honeymoon, the newlywed Savoys had moved into the cottage.
Timothy, smitten until the day he died, had indulged his wife, especially in her love for gardening. Every year, moonflowers wrapped their evening beauty around the porch posts, up a lantern pole installed when Marjo was three, and around virtually anything that stood still. Camellias of all colors burst brightly among shrubbery and indigenous plantings. For every season, there was a bloom—Violet Wood Sorrell for spring, Summer Snapdragons, Camellia Sasanqua for the fall. Elaine Savoy had carved out a pretty little oasis in this corner of the bayou. But despite her garden, Marjo’s mother had never been happy here.
Perhaps if her mother had put down roots in the community instead of in the ground, Marjo thought, she might have smiled more and cried less.
Marjo turned away from the window and took a seat in Grandmother Savoy’s rocking chair, one of a thousand family pieces that made up the cottage’s decor. Cally sank into the embroidered armchair beside her.
“So what did this guy do that was so bad?” Cally asked.
“Tried to put the opera house on the market as if it was a painting that didn’t fit with his new sofa.”
“And that’s a bad thing because…?” Cally asked. “I mean, wouldn’t a new buyer keep it running?”
“Not necessarily,” Marjo said. “Remember Dewey’s Country Store, that little mom-and-pop place in New Iberia? Some developer came in and snatched that up. Thought he could turn a frog into a mink coat.”
“I remember that. I don’t know anyone who shops at that fancy deli. Next they’ll be bringing in some uppity coffee shop to try to convince us a six-dollar cup of coffee is a good idea.”
“Exactly,” Marjo said. “Which is why I don’t want Paul Clermont selling the opera house. We’ve
Marjo sighed and shook her head. Lately she felt she was losing that battle.
Despite the hot October day, Cally looked cool and fresh. Maybe it was her blond hair or her easy, friendly manner, but she never seemed bothered by anything, especially not the heat. “I heard you had a showdown at the OK Opera House.” She mock-fired two pistols with her hands.
Marjo laughed. “Word travels fast.”
“ Chérie, dis is de bayou,” she said, affecting her best Louisiana accent. “You can’t sneeze around here without half de town t’inkin’ you’re dyin’ of typhoid five minutes later.”
Marjo laughed. “True.”
“So tell me, is this hunk who owns the opera house as gorgeous as half the female population of Indigo made him sound?”
“He’s not attractive at all.” Marjo turned her face away, busy pouring them each a glass of iced tea.
“Liar.” She followed Marjo out of the kitchen and into the front room, where the tall multipaned mullion windows faced the porch and the picturesque view of the deep, lush and vibrant bayou.
Marjo paused at the window for a moment. A hundred years ago her great-grandfather had built this little cottage. But when his son, her grandfather, had started Savoy Funeral Home, the Savoy families had moved into the spacious apartment upstairs, to be ready at a moment’s notice for a family in grief. Marjo and Gabriel’s father, Timothy, had been the second generation to run the funeral home, which had come to be known as aplace that catered to traditional Cajun values and traditions.
But when Timothy Savoy had brought his Atlanta-born bride to Indigo, Elaine had refused to use the funeral parlor as a home. She’d never spent a night there. The day they returned from their honeymoon, the newlywed Savoys had moved into the cottage.
Timothy, smitten until the day he died, had indulged his wife, especially in her love for gardening. Every year, moonflowers wrapped their evening beauty around the porch posts, up a lantern pole installed when Marjo was three, and around virtually anything that stood still. Camellias of all colors burst brightly among shrubbery and indigenous plantings. For every season, there was a bloom—Violet Wood Sorrell for spring, Summer Snapdragons, Camellia Sasanqua for the fall. Elaine Savoy had carved out a pretty little oasis in this corner of the bayou. But despite her garden, Marjo’s mother had never been happy here.
Perhaps if her mother had put down roots in the community instead of in the ground, Marjo thought, she might have smiled more and cried less.
Marjo turned away from the window and took a seat in Grandmother Savoy’s rocking chair, one of a thousand family pieces that made up the cottage’s decor. Cally sank into the embroidered armchair beside her.
“So what did this guy do that was so bad?” Cally asked.
“Tried to put the opera house on the market as if it was a painting that didn’t fit with his new sofa.”
“And that’s a bad thing because…?” Cally asked. “I mean, wouldn’t a new buyer keep it running?”
“Not necessarily,” Marjo said. “Remember Dewey’s Country Store, that little mom-and-pop place in New Iberia? Some developer came in and snatched that up. Thought he could turn a frog into a mink coat.”
“I remember that. I don’t know anyone who shops at that fancy deli. Next they’ll be bringing in some uppity coffee shop to try to convince us a six-dollar cup of coffee is a good idea.”
“Exactly,” Marjo said. “Which is why I don’t want Paul Clermont selling the opera house. We’ve
Similar Books
Finding Forever (Smoky Mountain Lawmen Book 1)
Ashley Quinn
Poems 1962-2012
Louise Glück
Private Politics (The Easy Part)
Emma Barry
Unquiet Slumber
Paulette Miller
Exit Lady Masham
Louis Auchincloss
Sunset & Vine: Loose Lips
Per Hampton
Trade Me
Courtney Milan
The Day Before
Liana Brooks
