“Your Spanish sucks.”
“Whatever. Now get your butt in gear. There are some crabs and sherry with my name on them.”
Darby tried to ignore the heat of the document pressing against his chest. Of course, it wasn’t actually hot. Just burning a hole in his stomach with horrible dread. He was an attorney and the document he carried wasn’t a prank, but he couldn’t figure out how the license had been filed. His father had virtually screamed the implausibility at him nearly eleven years ago—the day he’d shipped Darby off to Virginia—so this didn’t make sense. “Fine, but if Terese comes toward me with a blade, you must sacrifice yourself. If not, Picou will ply the sacrificial purifications of the Chickamauga on you. She’s been waiting for five years to get me back home to Beau Soleil.”
Hal rubbed his belly. “Did they perform human sacrifices?”
“Who? The Native Americans or Picou?”
“Either.”
Darby grinned. “I don’t know about the Chickamauga, but my mom will go psycho if I don’t climb off that plane.”
“Consider it done. No way I’m left to deal with your mother. She makes mine look like that woman from Leave It to Beaver.”
“Your mom is June Cleaver all the way down to the apron and heels.” Darby knew firsthand. Her weekly chocolate chips cookies had caused him to pack on a few pounds.
“I know. All women pale in comparison.” Hal opened the door of his white convertible BMW, his one prideful sin, and slid in. He perched a pair of Ray-Bans on his nose and fired the engine.
“Except our housekeeper, Lucille. Can’t wait to get my hands on her pecan pie.” Darby took one last look at his beachfront flat before sliding onto the hot leather seats of Hal’s car. He’d already shipped his motorcycle to the States weeks ago. He wanted it available when he got to Seattle and went in search of apartments, though he knew he’d likely have to sell it in favor of a respectable sedan. With all that Northwest rain, he’d have little chance to take as many mind-clearing drives as he had along the coast of Spain. Plus, Shelby hated it.
“Well, say goodbye, dude,” Hal said, sweeping one arm over the sunbaked villa where Darby had spent the past two years, before pulling away and heading toward the motorway that would take them into the city.
“Goodbye, dude,” Darby said, parroting his friend. He smiled as the wind hit his cheeks, but as soon as he remembered the document, his smile slipped away. Trouble brewed and this homecoming would be no cakewalk despite the pecan pie that waited.
“Are you sad? Thought you’d been ready to leave Rota since you got here, Louisiana boy.”
How could Darby tell him his mood wasn’t about leaving the base and his small adventure in Spain but about the marriage license he’d found in his high school trunk? He could, but there was no sense in ruining his last night with the man who’d become like a brother to him over the course of his deployment. With Hal being the base chaplain, most would think him an odd choice of roommate for a formerly degenerate bayou boy, but something about Hal clicked as soon as Darby met the man who’d been looking for a flatmate. Having Hal as a friend, guide and trusted mentor had made the move overseas tolerable. In fact, after a few months, Darby had downright enjoyed himself.
And he’d found Shelby through Hal.
And when he met the blonde teacher who taught at the American school on base, he knew he’d finally grown up, finally left his confusion and his past behind. Here was what he’d been looking for—a beautiful woman, a promising career, if the interview went well, and a clean slate in a new place—so he’d flung the dice and shipped his things to Seattle rather than home to Bayou Bridge.
He patted the inside pocket of his jacket.
But maybe he wouldn’t be moving forward as soon as he’d planned.
Because he was fairly certain he was legally married to Renny Latioles.
* * *
RENNY LATIOLES ADJUSTED her reading glasses and stared at the computer screen. How did L9-10 get so far away from the Black Lake Reservoir? And even more disturbing, why was the damn crane on Beau Soleil property?
“She still there?” fellow biologist Carrie Dupuy asked, mindlessly sipping the bitter coffee that had been sitting in the urn all day long. Coffee stayed brewing at the Black Lake station where they worked side by side on the reintroduction of the whooping crane into South Louisiana.
“Yeah, and I don’t get it. It’s over sixty miles from the habitat you’d think she would prefer. No other crane has gone that far to the north. There isn’t a lot of marsh in that parish even with the wetlands receding.”