"She's a debutante, T-Grace," he said. "Probably don' know how to eat a crawfish without nine kinds of silver forks."
"I do so," Laurel retorted, shooting him a look over her shoulder.
Defiantly, she snapped off a crawfish tail, dug her thumbs into the seam, and split it open to reveal the rich white meat, which she pulled out and ate with her fingers. The flavor was wonderful, making her mouth water, evoking memories. In her mind's eye she could see her father wolfing down crawfish at the festival in Breaux Bridge, his eyes closed with reverent appreciation and a big smile on his face.
"You gonna be a real Cajun and suck the fat out'a the head?"
She jerked free of the bittersweet memory and scowled at Jack, who was slipping his arms around her to steal food off her plate. "Go suck the fat out of your own head, Boudreaux. That ought to occupy you for a while."
Ovide's mustache twitched. T-Grace slapped the arm of her lawn chair and cackled. "I like this girl of yours, Jack. She got enough sass to handle you."
Laurel tried unsuccessfully to scoot away from him. "I'm afraid you've got the wrong idea, Mrs. Delahoussaye. Jack and I aren't involved. We're just…" She trailed off, at a loss for an appropriate word. Friends seemed too intimate, acquaintances too distant.
"You could say lovers, and we'll make good on it later," he murmured in a dark, seductive voice, nuzzling her ear as he reached for another crawfish.
T-Grace went on, unconcerned with Laurel 's definition of the relationship. "A girl's gotta have some sass. Like our Annick-Annie, you know? She gets herself in a scrap or two, but she takes care of herself, oui? She's a good girl, our Annie, she jus' can't pick a good man is all. Not like her maman."
She reached over to pat Ovide's sloping shoulder lovingly, her hard face aglow with affection. Ovide gave a snort that might have been approval or sinus trouble and tossed a crawfish shell into the bayou. A crack sounded from the dark water as a fish snapped up the shell.
"We raise seven babies in this house," T-Grace announced proudly. "Ovide and me, we work every day to make a good home, to make a good business. Now we got this damn Jimmy Lee making trouble for us, sayin' Frenchie's is the place where sin come from. Me, I'd like to send him to the place where sin come from. Ovide, he's gonna get the ulcer from worryin' 'bout what dat Jimmy Lee gonna do next."
She patted her husband's shoulder again, brushed at the wild gray hair that fringed his head and poured out of his ear. She shot a shrewd, sideways look at Laurel. "So, you gonna help us wit' dat or what, chère?"
The other shoe fell. Laurel felt trapped with Jack on one side and T-Grace staring her down on the other. She shifted uncomfortably on the bench, wanting nothing more than to escape. She shook her head as she abandoned her supper and extricated herself from the bench. "I believe we've already had this conversation, Mrs. Delahoussaye. I'm not practicing law-"
"You don' gotta practice," T-Grace said dryly. "Jus' do it."
Laurel heaved a sigh of frustration. "Really, all you have to do is call the sheriff the next time Reverend Baldwin comes on your property-"
"Ha! Like dat pigheaded jackass would bother with the like of us!"
"He's the sheriff-"
"You don' understand, sugar," Jack drawled. He swung his right leg over the bench and stretched his feet out in front of him, leaning his elbows back against the table. "Duwayne Kenner only comes runnin' if your name is Leighton or Stephen Danjermond. He's got too many important meetings to bother with the common folk. He isn't gonna get mixed up with Jimmy Lee and his Church of the Lunatic Fringe unless a judge tells him to."
"That's absurd!" Laurel exclaimed, rounding on Jack. "That's-"
He raised his brows. "The way it is, sweetheart."
"He's sworn to uphold justice," she argued.
"Not everybody has the same conviction about that as you do."
She said nothing, just stood there for a long moment. He had no such conviction. Jack made his own rules and probably broke them with impunity. He joked about the system, derided the people who tried to make it work. But he knew she didn't.
He watched her, his eyes a dark, bottomless brown, his expression intense. He was trying to read her. She felt as if those eyes were reaching right into her soul. Abruptly, she turned back toward T-Grace.
"There are several attorneys here in town-"
"Who don' give a rat's behind," T-Grace said. She abandoned her plate on the ground, forfeiting her dinner to Huey, who crawled out from under the picnic table and laid claim to the crawfish. T-Grace ignored the dog, her hard gaze homing in on Jack. She walked up to him with her hands on her hips, her chin tipped in challenge. "Jack here, he could help us, but here he sits on his cute little-"
"Jesus Christ, T-Grace!" Jack exploded. He got up from the bench so quickly, it tipped over backward with a crash that sent the hound scurrying for safe cover. "I'm disbarred! What the hell am I supposed to do?"
"Oh, nothin', Jack," she said softly, mockingly, not giving up an inch of ground. "We all know you jus' wanna have a good time." Daring more than any man would have, she reached up and patted his lean cheek. "You go on and have a good time, Jack. Don' bother with us. We'll make out."
Jack wheeled around in a circle, looking for some way to vent the anger roaring inside him. He wanted to yell at the top of his lungs, bellow like a wounded animal. He snatched a beer bottle off the table and hurled it, narrowly missing the bathtub shrine to the mother of God, and still the fury built inside him.
"Shit!"
T-Grace watched him with wise old eyes. "That's all right, Jack. We all know you don' get involved. You don' take responsibility for nothin'."
He glared at her, wanting to grab her and shake her until her bug eyes popped right out of her head. Damn her, damn her for making him feel… what? Like a cad, like a heel? Like a good for nothing, no-account piece of trash?
Bon à rien, T-Jack… bon à rien.
That's what he was. No good. He'd had that truth drilled into him since he was old enough to comprehend language. He had proven it true time and again. He had no business howling at the truth.
His gaze caught on Laurel, who stood quietly, her arms folded against her, her big eyes round behind her glasses. The champion for justice. Willing to sacrifice her reputation, her private life, her career, all for the cause. Dieu, what she must think of me… and all of it true.
That was the irony-and he had a finely honed appreciation for irony-that he was everything T-Grace accused him of and less, that he was exactly what he aspired to be, and now the image he had settled into was turning on him-or he was turning against it.
"I don' need this," he snarled. "I'm outta here."
Laurel watched him stalk away, a little shaken by his outburst. A part of her wanted to go after him, to offer comfort, to ask why. Not smart, Laurel. She had enough trouble of her own without taking on the burden of Jack Boudreaux's darker side… or the plight of Frenchie's Landing…
But as she turned back toward T-Grace, she couldn't bring herself to say no. It was no big deal, she told herself. Just a visit to the courthouse, a phone call or two. She wasn't taking on the world. Just a pair of honest, hardworking people who needed a little justice. Surely she was strong enough for that.
"All right," she said on a sigh. "I'll see what I can do."
For once, T-Grace was speechless, managing only a smile and a nod. Ovide hefted himself out of his chair and dusted remnants of crawfish shells off his belly. Laying a broad hand on Laurel 's shoulder, he looked her in the eye and growled, "Merci, chère."
Chapter Twelve
Jimmy Lee sat on the windowsill, feeling sorry for himself, wearing nothing but his dirty white trousers and a frown. Sweat trickled in little streams down his chest to pool on his belly. He sipped at a glass of brandy, brooding, reliving his humiliation in his mind, tormenting himself with it. He had had that crowd in the palm of his hand, he thought, curling his fingers into a fist. Then that damn Chandler bitch had ruined everything. Of course, he had managed to salvage the situation with his quick thinking, but the moment of glory had been spoiled, just the same.