Love in Season Read online

  Sandi finished school in December with a BFA and a book contract. She would enroll in grad school for her Masters in the fall after a much needed and well deserved break during the spring and summer semesters. Break was relative in term only, as she would be tied up in edits and revisions most of that time.

  He glanced at the diamond ring tied into the bow of the bouquet of lilies that lay on the seat next to him and hoped this Easter would be a new beginning for them as a family. He heard the church door open and glanced over his shoulder to see her enter. Rising, he picked up the flowers and met her midway down the aisle where a plethora of stars shone through the skylight. Taking her hand, he dropped to one knee and watched surprise and pleasure light her eyes brighter than a thousand stars when she spotted the ring.

  “Will you do me the honor of coming home as my wife? I promise to love, honor, cherish and treasure you in ways previously unimaginable.”

  Without a word, Sandi untied the bow, gave him the ring and held her breath while he slipped the diamond she’d longed for flush against the wedding band on her finger.

  Dear Reader,

  Like Brett, how often do we let poor past decisions shape our future instead of forgiving, letting go and moving forward into the plan God has for our lives? I know I’ve done so many times. But I work with God continually to trust and to release old mindsets that hinder Him and block His movement in my life.

  I believe, like Karla, that life is progressive. Always moving. Always evolving. Always expanding. If we stay stuck ways of doing things and ways of thinking that keep us trapped in negativity, we’ll never live up to our potential.

  I’ve mentioned things in this story you may not be aware of (journaling, affirmations, etc.) or perhaps you’ve heard of them but were unsure of their value. I’ve used these modalities in my quest to know God (my Lord, Father, Savior, Brother, Advocate and Friend personified) on a more intimate level as well as for mental/emotional healing and spiritual/self-growth.

  It’s been said that when the student is ready, the teacher will appear. May these thoughts, ideas and words expressed throughout this story be a source of inspiration, healing and teaching for YOU!

  If you don’t know Him, I pray that you meet Jesus. If you do, I urge you accept Him as Lord and Savior and to seek a closer, more personal walk with Him.

  THANK YOU for your continued support of my writing. May you find joy in reading.

  Pamela S Thibodeaux

  “Inspirational with an Edge!”™

  The Big Catch

  “You have to jerk harder than that,” Jeffrey chided, unable to disguise the hint of amusement in his voice.

  I held my breath and counted to twenty. The last time he corrected me, I’d jerked too hard. After six months with what I thought was the love of my life, we’d discovered some uncommon ground. Namely, The Great Outdoors.

  Oh, I loved swimming, hiking, tennis, ball games, all manner of sports; blue skies, warm water, all of God’s earth was glorious. Especially in summertime.

  Jeffrey had other ideas of how to enjoy the beauty of nature. Fishing. Red fish, snapper, flounder, speckled trout, bass, catfish, white perch; anything that came off a hook, fresh from a canal, pond, lake or river. Fresh water, salt water; it didn’t matter as long as he could be out there fishing.

  For the life of me, I couldn’t figure it out. What–exactly–could anyone get out of putting an innocent little fish on a hook to attract a bigger fish? I mean, luring that poor, unsuspecting fish to its death while causing the death of another. And catch and release? That was a plain old waste of time. Why spend all that time and effort catching a fish just to turn it loose? Then, there were the hours spent away from land or any form of civilization; in a boat, in the middle of nowhere, with only the heat and insects to contend with, not to mention Mother Nature’s mercurial temperament.

  The whole concept was beyond me. Baked, broiled, or fried, was the limit to my understanding of fish. However, after months of coaxing, urging, and downright begging, I agreed to give it a try. Now, barely two hours after leaving dry land, I’d about had it. My maiden voyage was turning out to be a disaster. I was either jerking too hard or not hard enough. My line spent more time out of than in the water, usually caught on some buried treasure hidden deep below the surface or in a tangled mess from my inept casting abilities.

  For some unknown reason, the art, beauty, and challenge of catching a fish eluded me. Still, I had to hand it to him; Jeffrey was a study in patience.

  Tossing my line over to him once more, I shuddered in disgust as he stuck the hook through the head of a squirming minnow, and baited my line for the umpteenth time that day. Tossing it into the murky water, I prayed for luck or a sudden rainstorm.

  “Watch him Karla,” Jeff said, as the cork on my line began to bob and twitch. “Easy, now. Wait.” Quietly and gently he guided me in watching and waiting for just the right moment to set the hook.

  I was more interested in the sound of his voice than what was going on with my line. Jeff always sounded as though he’d just rolled out of bed. Thick, husky, and warm, his voice alone could seduce me into a puddle.

  “Now!”

  The sudden command startled me and I jerked with all my might. Jeff’s laughter rent the air, and I had to force myself not to hit him with the rod.

  “You jerked his lips off,” he teased, his brown eyes dancing with humor.

  “That’s not funny. You startled me. It’s your fault I jerked too hard.” A pout stretched my lips as he continued to laugh.

  “I’m not laughing at you, sweetheart. I’m laughing with you,” he insisted, nearly doubled over with mirth.

  “Right.” I fought the urge to throw the fishing contraption–hook, line and sinker–into the lake.

  “Aw, c’mon now,” he soothed. “Chin up. You’ll always be my favorite fishing partner.”

  Silky, smooth, and seductive, his voice turned my insides to mush.

  “Don’t worry,” he added, “you’ll get it right next time. Practice makes perfect you know.”

  There won’t be a next time, I thought, but bit back the retort.

  As the sun rose higher and the morning grew hotter, my patience got shorter. I decided to take a break while Jeff untangled and repaired my line yet again. Putting away my rod and reel, as per his instructions, I stretched back in my seat. The trolling motor purred as Jeffrey worked the bank. The tension dissipated, and I began to relax.

  My fingers trailed in the cool, salty water as we moved idly along. Waves lapping against the boat combined with its gentle rocking lulled my soul into a quiet, peaceful state. Seagulls dove greedily into schools of baitfish or shrimp and came up with a screech of triumph or disappointment. Large, gray-tinged clouds floated on a soft breeze across an otherwise clear sky, providing a bit of shelter from the rising sun. There was an angel and a mouse. All around, nature was a symphony of sight and sound.

  Now this I could get used to, I realized—nature in all her glory and Jeff in his. Watching him was like poetry in motion.

  I retrieved the suntan oil from the tackle box and then smoothed it on every inch of exposed skin. After tucking my hair under the wide-brimmed, straw hat I wore, I adjusted my sunglasses and watched him. His broad shoulders flexed and rippled with every cast. His excitement was contagious. I got a kick out of his smile and triumphant little laugh every time he caught a keeper, and the way he’d joke and pretend to kiss the ones he threw back. It was amazing how he could concentrate on so many things at once—fishing, working the trolling motor, carrying on a conversation—and never miss a bite, never lose his train of thought. When he glanced over at me and winked, the frustrations of the morning faded away like the last, lingering, wisps of morning fog.

  The sun was nearly straight up in the sky before Jeff was ready to take a break. Stacking the rods neatly in their rack, he helped me trade places with him. His lips lowered toward mine.

  “Whoa, boy, these ain’t no fish lips.” After th
e morning I’d endured, I couldn’t help but take a turn at teasing him.

  His answering chuckle was soft, throaty. “Oh, no, sugar lips,” he said in that beautiful voice. I melted. After a quick brush of his lips across mine, Jeff started the motor, and we sped off to a quiet, secluded cove.

  Lunch was dry bologna sandwiches, soggy chips, gooey cookies, and ice-cold colas. Sharing it with Jeffrey made my romantic heart think of a candlelight dinner at a secluded table for two in a fancy restaurant. The bright, noonday, sun took on a soft, intimate, glow. His tender teasing, gentle laughter and sweet kisses made me glad I’d come along, but not overly anxious to try my hand at fishing again.

  After a quiet, uninterrupted, lunch we were back at it. Though not as disastrous, the afternoon wasn’t much more successful than the morning, for me anyway. I barely got the hang of casting my line without causing it to backlash before it was time to leave. By the time we picked up the boat and headed home, the sun was well into its descent, and I was exhausted. The day hadn’t been a total waste. Jeff caught a stringer full, I caught sunburn.

  Though I sported a healthy tan all year, the difference in normal exposure to the summer sun, compared with it’s angry glare off saltwater, even with SPF protection, turned my skin into an angry red mass and forced me to take a few days of sick leave from my job.

  Bright and early Monday morning, a rose appeared on my doorstep. A rose for a rose, the card read. All that week Jeff showered me with trinkets and gifts and lavished me with affection to show his appreciation for my sportsmanship and to apologize for my discomfort. Every evening he came over and rubbed the soothing ointment prescribed by my doctor into my parched, dry skin, soothing it, and me, and then followed up with gentle kisses.

  As my skin healed, I began to look at fishing in a different light. Though I hadn’t caught more than rays, I had enjoyed the beauty of nature with the man I loved. Still, I begged off for the next few weekends.

  My next fishing trip wasn’t as disastrous, or as long; just a quiet morning spent in the boat with Jeff. The small saltwater lake fed off the Gulf of Mexico providing a variety of treasures and even I was able to catch a few speckled trout. We shared lunch on a blanket on the ground beneath a huge oak tree at a roadside park. That evening we watched a romantic movie, sharing popcorn, peanuts, and colas.

  As the summer dwindled into early fall, the colors of nature turned to beautiful shades of red and gold. The days were cooler, the nights longer. My fishing technique improved. On the one-year anniversary of our first date, Jeff proposed.

  We’d gone fishing that morning. Actually, Jeff did all the fishing. I sat back in my seat and watched him, enjoying our time together, breathing in the crisp fall air, and the beauty of nature all around; sights, sounds, and smells that I’d come to appreciate. That evening we shared a candlelight dinner and wine at the Starlight Bar and Grill, the same place we’d had dinner exactly one year ago. Jeff told me again that I was his favorite fishing partner. Then, with a tender smile and a kiss, he gave me a gift.

  Skillfully sculpted in wood and beautifully hand-painted, was a carving of a man in a boat. You could almost feel the gentle lap of the white-tipped waves against the bow. The guy looked a little like Jeff, warm golden skin and that special smile. Every detail was intricately carved, painstakingly complete, from the tiny tackle box opened to display an array of lures to the stringer of fish hanging off the side of the boat. The artist had even captured that sparkle in a fisherman’s eye when he caught a big one.

  At the end of tiny rod and reel, sporting real fishing line, was a ring. A petite heart-shaped diamond set in a brilliant gold band. Gazing into my eyes Jeff asked if I’d be his partner for life. Without hesitating I said yes.

  After only a few fishing trips, looks like I’d caught myself a keeper.

  Dear Reader,

  How often are we like Karla, reluctant to try new things or hesitant to step out of our comfort zone because we don’t understand the whys and wherefores of someone else’s passion or don’t know how to do something? Even if we don’t enjoy the same activities, there is pleasure to be found by simply being in the presence of those we love.

  Next time your significant other invites you to tag along while he or she does their thing, I urge you to put aside your reasons why you can’t go and grasp the opportunity to just be together. Then listen when he or she talks about their passion. Feel his or her enthusiasm, and bask in the pleasure of spending quality time in each other’s company.

  After all, relationships are built (or broken) on communication and compromise.

  Something to think about….

  Pamela S Thibodeaux

  “Inspirational with an Edge!” ™

  A Hero for Jessica

  With care, Anthony Paul Seville prepared for the evening ahead. Impeccably groomed, his Oscar de la Renta suit was the height of fashion; dark gray with lighter pinstripes that he’d been told brought to life the silver in his hair and the glint in his eyes.

  As a lawyer and professor, he found the upcoming event to be confining. Still, he’d promised. It was the first, and only, time he’d ever agreed to host a lecture on the finer points of the law—and on a Friday no less.

  With a weary sigh, he walked out of his Penthouse apartment in Jackson Square and made his way to the parking garage that housed his BMW convertible. Within moments he arrived at the New Orleans Hilton and entered the conference room where he would host the small, informal, lecture.

  Early as planned, he walked around and familiarized himself with the seating arrangements. The reserved cards, which bore the names of people who would attend, were filed in his memory as quickly and effectively as though they were facts surrounding an important case. He sensed more than heard a movement at the door, and turned to greet Mr. Philip Monroe, Dean of Loyola University.

  “Hi Phil,” Paul stretched out a hand and let a huge grin split his face. He felt the older man wince and loosened his grip, knowing that arthritis had reduced Phil’s handshake to a mere version of his earlier days. However both his smile and the light in his eyes reflected admiration and gratitude that he would give up his Friday night to do this favor for a friend.

  “Any set plans for the lecture this evening?”

  Paul shrugged. “Not really. I’ve racked my brain all afternoon but I’m not sure exactly what these people want to know. There were no preliminary questionnaires or anything to give me a clue. Thought I’d just leave the floor open for discussion and answer the questions that come up. What do you think?”

  “Sounds like a plan to me. And, Paul, I appreciate this. I really do. It’s great publicity for the profession. Not to mention the university.”

  Paul tossed away the gratitude with a shrug. “No problem Phil, none at all.”

  They turned in unison as a young woman stumbled into the room. Her eyes widened as the heel of her shoe caught in her dress, and ripped the hem. Paul lifted an amused brow at the muttered curse that slipped through the beautifully painted lips and the look of mortification that quickly followed.

  “May we help you?” he drawled.

  Jessica’s head jerked up in surprise at the sound of his voice. She stood mesmerized, staring at the man she’d sought to meet for so long. Of their own accord her eyes closed; embarrassment washed over her in angry waves, and left her cheeks stinging in its wake.

  “Umm,” she cleared her throat. “I’m here for the lecture.” She hoped her voice sounded stronger than she felt.

  With a lazy gesture, he glanced at his watch then back at her. “A mite early, aren’t you?” he queried. Another rush of heat burned her cheeks.

  She lifted her chin in defiance but refrained from comment. Mr. Anthony Paul Seville might be one of the best, most-sought-after lawyers in New Orleans, or Louisiana for that matter, but he wasn’t going to make her feel like a fool. She managed that quite nicely all by herself, thank you very much.

  His stride possessed an elegant, lazy grace when he walked
toward her.

  “May I escort you to your seat Miss.…?” His brow lifted in question.

  “Aucoin. Jessica Aucoin. And, no, thank you. I believe I can find it myself.” Amusement lit his midnight gaze when he glanced down at the torn hem of her dress and then back at her face. It set her teeth on edge.

  “Well, Miss Aucoin. It’s the desk in front, last row I believe,” he remarked, and bent to pick up the book satchel she’d dropped while she clung precariously to the doorframe.

  She clenched one fist into the folds of her dress, the other around the handle of the satchel, breathed her thanks, and made her way cautiously to the other side of the room. She found her place and sat as gracefully as possible on legs that wobbled. Paul Seville’s reputed looks and manner were not unknown to her, but nothing, absolutely nothing, could have prepared her for the real thing.

  An excited buzz began to fill the room as people arrived and took their seats. Then after a brief introduction from Mr. Monroe, the lecture began.

  Spellbound, Jessica watched while the man handled even the densest of questions with absolute solemnity. As a writer of romantic suspense and mysteries, she’d followed his career for years and fashioned some of her best stories after his most bizarre cases. While she watched, the idea for her latest creation came to life, and she determined he would make a perfect hero.

  He wasn’t a large man, five-nine or ten and slight of form, but unbearably handsome. Splashes of silver streaked his hair, belied his age, enhanced the aura of professionalism and authority he exuded, and came across as purely sensual. Passion and intelligence glowed in the midnight eyes. Yes, she decided mentally, Paul Seville would definitely make the perfect hero, as well as the perfect lawyer to handle the legal battle in which she was about to engage.