Sweet Surrender Read online

  SWEET SURRENDER

  Jeanie Freeman-Harper

  Also by Jeanie Freeman-Harper

  September Song

  McCann Family Trilogy:

  Jesse McCann

  A Mist in the Pines

  House on Diablo Road

  Credits :

  “Lost and Found” lyrics by Kix Brooks and Don Cook

  “Lyin' Eyes” lyrics by Don Henley and Glen Fry

  “Sweet Surrender” lyrics by David Gates

  Sweet Surrender

  copyright©2016 Jeanie Freeman-Harper and Dreamflo Entertainment

  All rights reserved, with the exception of quotes used in reviews

  ISBN-13: 978-1530439324

  ISBN-10: 1530439329

  This book is a work of fiction. Names of characters are the product of the author's imagination.

  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Prologue

  Down toward the Gulf of Mexico in southern Louisiana lies the quaint fishing village of Vermilion Bay. Back from its banks, a massive Acadian style house sits high on pylons overlooking the canals where the boats come and go. Behind the house lie fields of sugarcane as far as the eye can see.

  Built for strength by the Lejeune family, the structure has withstood hurricane winds down through the generations. Thus, somewhere along the way, the estate became known as “Winderlee”, and the owner, Lucien Lejeune, wielded his power over all who crossed his portal.

  Two weeks before his death, Lucien rewrote his will and left the house and farm to his granddaughter Eva Marie, who had come to live in the home as a child. When word of that departure from tradition leaked out, the gens de la ville shook their heads in disbelief:

  “Lucien went couyon toward the end,” said an old Cajun. “He left out Alex, his only son.”

  “He put the peeshwank at the helm,” said another. “She’ll end up just like her ma-ma, yeah.”

  Eva Marie, was in some ways her mother made over. She had Adele’s green eyes and thick dark curls, but that’s where the resemblance ended. There was something different about Eva. She endured the negligence of damaged parents who fed on each others' weaknesses and survived, until the explosive end of their marriage when she was six years old. Alex Lejeune walked out, and her mother Adele fell to the bottom of the bottle where she took up permanent residence. The little girl was forced to fend for herself and withstood taunting by other children because of her wrinkled and ill-fitting clothing. Yet something within the child’s undaunted spirit drove her to hold her head high and give no one the power to hurt her. She learned, at that tender age, that to love is to feel rejection and disappointment.

  Then Fate, in the gentle form of Grandmama Esther Lejeune, came to her rescue. Seeing the decline of her daughter-in law and the neglect of the child, she had Adele committed to Bayou Shadows Psychiatric Hospital. On that day, she took her granddaughter to live at Winderlee. Eva's childhood was secluded and lonely, especially after the death of her grandmother. Thereafter, she was tended by a Cajun housekeeper, schooled by her aunt, and given guidance by the parish priest. It was her grandfather Lucien who doled out the discipline with a thick rod of sugar cane.

  As for Alex Lejeune? He had hidden himself somewhere in the Yukon for over twenty years. In a fit of rage, Lucien disinherited him with explicit orders to the attorney: “Cut the boy out! Send him packing when he comes crawling back for his share. Sooner or later, he will do just that. I’ve groomed my granddaughter to take my place.”

  Now, at the age of twenty-three, heiress by default or by design, Eva Marie Lejeune inherited the rustic world built by the Acadian descendants of Nova Scotia—there in the lowlands and bayous of Louisiana where lost spirits wander, and superstition reigns supreme.

  1

  The single engine Cessna buzzed just under the clouds, circling the seemingly endless fields of sugar cane. At age thirty-five, Gabriel Martin had dusted crops for most of his adult life and loved the acrobatics: buzzing over the tops of trees and church steeples and swooping down low across open fields like an eagle. In the seat next to him sat Rambo, the big mixed breed dog and sidekick.

  “A perfect day to be in the air, boy. There’s nothing to bother us here above the hustle and bustle.”

  Gabe's mind wandered to the puffy white clouds floating in the deep blue sky above him. He was feeling relaxed, almost drowsy, as he dipped low for the final spray at the end of the field. He looked to the side from his cockpit to follow the stream of fungicide as it covered the long rows of young plants. At the end of the last row, he began his descent toward the grassy strip just beyond the fields.

  As he lowered the plane, he spotted a mud speckled yellow jeep, and a young woman, not much more than a girl, beneath the plane, waving her arms frantically. Already in descent, Gabriel pulled back up at the same moment the woman threw herself to the ground. He circled back as she picked herself up and jogged to the landing strip. The moment he was on the ground, she stood before him―a petite young woman with laser green eyes and a thick braid of dark hair topped by a western straw hat. She was not happy.

  “What did you think you were doing?” he demanded. “Attempting suicide by crop duster?”

  “Don't blame me! You weren't paying attention. I was trying to flag you down when you took a sudden dip. The question should be what were you trying to do...kill me? I wanted you to stop dusting.”

  “You were a bit late. I was just beginning to bring the plane down for landing.”

  “I wasn't aware that you were even scheduled. I don’t want to use pesticides!”

  As he stared wide-eyed, she became aware of her appearance―the baggy shorts and hair starting to frizz from the humidity. Her hands fluttered about to smooth the loose strands. Why should I care...as if it matters, she told herself.

  “Who are you? I signed a contract with Lucien Lejeune, and for your information, I use only organic, safe chemicals. Mr. Lejeune ordered the work last season. I need to speak with him...not some air-headed girl.”

  “You can't speak to Mr. Lejeune. He died two weeks ago. You must be the only person in Iberia Parish who doesn't know, and how dare you call me a 'girl'.”

  “Oh, so the 'air-headed' part was okay with you?”

  “I may have deserved that...at that moment any way.”

  “Well, I am sorry to hear about Mr. Lejeune. I was away in Texas on a personal matter.”

  “Figures you’re from Texas. Do I even know you?”

  “No, and believe me, had we already met, I would’ve tried to avoid you. Gabriel Martin’s my name, and I need to speak to the head man about my pay.”

  “Well, I'm the head woman and owner, as a matter of fact. I didn't realize my grandfather had hired you.”

  “Lucien gave you the farm?”

  She squared her shoulders. “Yes, he did. I'm Eva Lejeune, his granddaughter.”

  The crop duster rolled his eyes to the heavens as if in search of divine intervention. “So you're my boss?”

  “For lack of a better word. My point was—I knew the effects of pesticides, and I thought there were no safe ones.”

  “You don't believ
e your grandfather did what was best? Do you have an issue with trust?”

  “Probably. Nevertheless, you didn't have to be so rude. ”

  “You're right, but I was a little unnerved. Look, I've finished here. All I need is to get paid by somebody, and I'll be on my way.”

  “If you'll walk up to the house, I'll write you a check.”

  ”That's fine. I 'll wait on the deck with Rambo”

  “Who? Rambo?”

  At the mention of his name, Rambo sat up in the seat, looked at Eva and gave a low rumbling growl. Eva smiled in spite of her frustration. “Obviously, your dog doesn't think much of me either.”

  “Be nice, boy,” Gabriel shouted over his shoulder. “You're dealing with an impaired person.”

  ***

  Eva could smell supper cooking long before she climbed the outside steps up to the deck. Inside the Cajun style kitchen, Colette Landry, cook and housekeeper, tied a bandanna over her freshly permed hair, managed to get an apron around her girth and stirred the roux. Her charm bracelet jangled as she mixed flour and oil, in between quick puffs of a red label Marlboro. Upon hearing footsteps on the deck, she snuffed out the evidence of her transgression into the garbage disposal and flipped on the exhaust fan.

  Eva entered the kitchen to the slight but unmistakable smell of tobacco. “Oh no. You’ve been smoking...after we discussed this...”

  Colette had a huge advantage over her employer. She had been at Winderlee long before Eva and had run the household as she pleased under Lucien's disinterest in anything domestic. To her, Eva was not so much her boss but that sad little girl; she ignored the rebuke and shifted the attention elsewhere: “Jamais d'la vie! Are you just going to leave that healthy specimen of manhood outside? No wonder you have a problem with men. You ignore them. He looks all flushed. What did you do to him, babette ?”

  “Don't change the subject, and I didn’t do anything to him.”

  “Holy mother of us all, you were always one to bring home strays. Should we let this one in and feed him? ”

  “I suppose. I'm being charitable, considering he almost ran me down with his plane.”

  “He almost did what...?”

  “Never-mind. It was partly my fault, I guess.”

  Eva went out to the deck, where the crop duster sprawled in a lawn chair with the dog lying at his feet. She took in the look of tanned face and long, toned arms and knew the man did not spend his time behind a desk. “I'll cut your check after supper,” she said. “In the meantime, I don't suppose you'd want a bowl of shrimp etouffee, as a peace offering of sorts.”

  Rambo stood and wagged his tail.

  “Was that a question for me?” Gabriel responded.

  “Yes, I'm asking you ”

  His rumbling stomach answered before he did. “Well, thanks, but I'll need to wash up. Stay, Rambo.”

  Gabe stood and removed the ball cap and aviator sunglasses, then tucked both in the pockets of khaki cargo shorts. Eva took a quick look at his features for the first time―the closely cropped brown hair, the hazel gold eyes, the aquiline nose that had, at some point, been broken in two places, along with a faded scar along the strong jawline. Somehow the face was handsome, despite, or maybe because of, those imperfections. He had the look of a warrior.

  “Mind if I give Rambo a bowl of etouffee...if there's enough, that is?” he asked.

  Eva rolled her eyes and suppressed a smile. “Would he like a glass of sweet tea to go with it?”

  ”That would be nice,” Gabe replied, as straight-faced as an altar boy.

  The fragrant, earthy smell of fresh Gulf shrimp, garlic and cayenne surrounded them inside.

  “About time,” Colette grumbled “Getting ready to chunk this pot out to the couchons.”

  “The what, ma'am?” Gabriel asked.

  Colette squinted hard at the mound of masculinity standing in her kitchen. “So you're not Cajun. Ayeee. What a shame.” She handed them bowls of the spicy stew with a scoop of steamed rice in the center of each. Eva sat down at the table, but Gabe chose to sit on the bar stool in the kitchen—up until Aunt Nadine Lejeune Broussard breezed in from her house down the road.

  The merry widow floated in wearing a sweeping caftan and her best blond wig. Upon seeing the crop duster, she lit up like a roman candle on the Fourth of July. “Who's your new beau, Eva Marie? He looks familiar.”

  “He's not my beau, Auntie. We just met, and after today, I doubt either of us wants to meet up again. ”

  Gabriel Martin ignored the remark and gave Nadine a mega watt smile that showed off white, even teeth—obviously the only thing spared in a rough and tumble life. “Don't you remember me, Mrs. Broussard?”

  Nadine pulled her eyeglasses in place and looked again. “Why it is you. Hello, Gabe. What a pleasure to see you again.”

  Eva paused with spoon mid way between bowl and open mouth. “You know him well enough to call him 'Gabe' ?”

  “Of course. All his friends call him that. Don't you know? He owns Martin's Agricultural Services. Papa Lucien held him in high regard.”

  Before Eva could reply, a harried Colette interrupted: “Eva Marie, there's a tahyo at the patio door. It's drooling on the glass. You want me to feed it or run it off?”

  “Feed it, please...and try to use English. It's impolite to speak French in front of a Texan.”

  Colette shrugged. “I will try, but you know I was raised in Big Mamou.”

  Gabe stood up. “I'll feed my dog. He's my responsibility,”

  Bemused, Nadine took her place at the kitchen table. “Now that's a rarity these days―a responsible man who's also good looking.”

  When Gabe returned, she patted the seat next to her. “Sit here by me, and let me pour you a glass of tea. I'm afraid Eva doesn't keep liquor. My mousey little niece won't touch the stuff...not after seeing her mother indulge to the point of ruination.” Nadine paused only long enough to spear and devour a shrimp. “After that, there's been no happy median for Eva. Adele was such a mess, and my worthless brother Alex abandoned them both. So Eva sees everything as either good or evil. No shades of gray.”

  Eva felt the blood rise to her cheeks. “Auntie, once you get started there's no stopping you, is there? You're like a runaway train. You're discussing me with someone I don't know, and I'm sure Mr. Martin isn't all that interested.”

  Gabe's eyes darted sidelong at Eva, and seeing the flush of embarrassment settled the matter quickly: “Frankly, there's no need for me to know, Mrs. Broussard. To answer your earlier question, tea is fine. I really don't indulge in stronger stuff very often.”

  “Oola, Sha. That's what my Jasper tries to tell me,” Colette declared.

  ***

  After supper, while the others chatted, Eva went into the office to write the crop duster a check from the supply in the desk drawer. She remembered, as a child, when she had first come to Winderlee how she had often sneaked into that room to play. The musty smell of ancient books and maple pipe tobacco lingered within the walls and blinds―a constant reminder of Grandpapa Lucien. Even the sugar cane rod, with which she had received punishment as a little girl, was still propped in a corner. She remembered her grandfather’s words of warning: You will surely feel the sting of my wrath, Eva Marie, when you trespass into my study. There was something there in that dark, stale room that Lucien had guarded fanatically.

  Now the office and everything in it was hers. She eased into the oversized leather chair and looked at the paperwork set in a neat pile on the massive oak desk. On the top was the bill from Martin Agricultural Services. She felt like a child again, playing grown up in her grandfather's chair, half expecting the door to swing open to see Lucien glowering at her. She could almost hear that rich, modulated French accent, subtly different from the archaic Acadian lingo: Eva Marie, will you jump into my grave as quickly as you jump into my chair?

  Check in hand, she tiptoed from the room, as if in fear of awakening some entity contained within those four walls. In the hallway, s
he found Gabriel waiting with his business card. “We got off to a rocky start, Miss Lejeune, but If you decide to use me...I mean use my services, maybe when it comes time to fertilize...the crop I mean...you have my number. Thank you for dinner, and by the way, you should never let your aunt or anyone else refer to you as ‘mousey’. Don’t let it go to your head, but that word in no way describes what I see.”

  She liked the way his eyes locked into hers and the way the scar along his cheek intensified when he smiled. What was the story behind that intriguing face?

  “Walk me out, will you?” he said.

  Maybe I was wrong. Maybe he is a gentleman after all.

  But at his parting words, her generosity of spirit evaporated like water droplets on a sidewalk in summer: “One more thing,” he said softly. “Would you please stay out of the fields when, if ever again, I dust your sugarcane?”

  By the time she could form the words to respond, he had loped off toward the plane, and all that remained were small nettles of irritation. Even so, Gabriel Martin was nothing like the local men in Vermilion Bay—they with their flirty swagger and well rehearsed sweet talk that charmed every young woman except her. If nothing else, Gabriel Martin was different.

  As she turned to go back inside, she heard the crunch of gravel and peered into the darkness to see the headlights of a familiar black Fiat. Out stepped Father Renaud from St Luke's Church. Inside her gut was that old sinking-in-quicksand feeling whenever the priest came to call. She always thought of Adele, knowing the priest visited Bayou Shadows regularly. There came that thought : what has mother done now?

  Nevertheless, she greeted the priest cordially. “This is a surprise. Will you come in? I can make us coffee.”