Under the Autumn Sky Page 5

  She spun toward Abram. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “Well, hello to you, too, Louise.”

  “Lou, now let’s watch the language here,” Coach Landry said, waving his hand as if he were stroking the back of a horse. “This here’s an informal visit—”

  She blocked Coach Landry’s voice out. Rage choked her. “You—you—ought to be ashamed of yourself. You knew who I was.”

  “Not until this morning when I ran into Mr. Forcet and then looked at Waylon’s file. I inherited this recruiting area from Coach Moreland several weeks ago when he left for the offensive coordinating job with Ohio State. I had no clue who you were.”

  “Bullsh—” She swallowed the curse even though she wanted to nail him to the brick wall with a volley of creative language. She worked at a construction company. She knew combinations a sailor didn’t. “I’ve heard about how you recruiting guys work. Crawling all over the place, popping up in grocery stores or churches looking to sway recruits or their families. It’s despicable. And to try to use me? I can’t—”

  “Use you? You watch too much TV or something?” Abram interrupted, his green eyes turning a cold emerald. “This isn’t a conspiracy. Get real.”

  Coach Landry ping-ponged his head between the two of them, before broadening his gaze to the area around them. “Maybe we better hold this conversation in my office. For, you know, privacy.”

  “Sis?” She heard Waylon’s voice then and noticed several other students in the hall. Classes were about to change.

  She spun toward her brother who was flanked by his girlfriend, Morgan, and his friend Mason. He looked like Goliath next to two Davids. “Go to class, Way. This doesn’t involve you.”

  “Coach?”

  Lou pointed a finger at her brother. “You do what I say, Waylon Boyd.”

  “Chill, Lou. You’re acting crazy, making me look like a punk in front of the school.” Both his friends looked off, obviously uncomfortable with the situation.

  Abram’s voice was low, but made of steel. “This is your sister, and she doesn’t deserve disrespect.”

  Waylon’s eyes clouded and he looked at Lou. Then back at Abram, before allowing his eyes to dip down to the logo on the shirt. She saw the dawning in his eyes. “Sorry, Lou. Sir.”

  Abram nodded. She did nothing. Her brother shifted on his size-13 feet. “What’s going on?”

  Coach Landry stepped in front of her and Abram. “Your sister’s right, Way. Go on to class. I’ll talk to you this afternoon after conditioning.”

  “Let’s let the kids move on. Coach Dufrene? Lou?” Landry stepped back and motioned towards his office.

  Lou didn’t want to have this discussion right now, but she also didn’t want to have it out in the hall.

  The bell rang, making the decision for her. She walked into Landry’s office. Abram followed.

  Coach Landry closed the door. “What in the Sam Hill is going on?”

  For a moment she and Abram stared at one another. She didn’t know how to feel. Never thought she’d see him again. Never thought he could have been using her to get close to her brother. He caved first and turned his gaze on Coach Landry.

  “It’s not complicated. Last night I stopped at a local bar, mostly to use the john, but then I grabbed a beer. Ended up running into Waylon’s sister, but I had no idea Louise was even related to him. We danced and had a beer together. Nothing more.”

  She looked at the stapler sitting on David’s desk, avoiding Abram’s eyes. Refusing to show how much more their meeting could have meant.

  “It was an unintentional off-campus contact. I think Miss Boyd thinks it was intentional, but that’s as far from the truth as it gets. I didn’t even know his guardian’s name until this morning when I talked to her employer at the Waffle House.”

  David sank into his worn desk chair. “Ah, hell.”

  She licked her lips. “I don’t like to feel manipulated.”

  “How in the hell is this manipulation, Louise? What? You think I found out your schedule and stalked you? That’s really not how recruiting works regardless of what you may have heard.” Abram’s voice held anger. “This is my career, and I wouldn’t risk that for a random stranger. You think that’s the way we operate at ULBR?”

  She gave him a blank stare. She didn’t know what to believe but it all seemed too much of a fluke to sit right with her. The man she’d tried to give her virginity to the night before was the coach sent to recruit her brother. It seemed too pat. She knew the lengths schools went to in going after prospects. She read the papers. Watched ESPN. Those bastards manipulated everyone surrounding the prospect, using Facebook, Twitter, casual meet-ups as ways to sway a kid toward their school. So why not seduction? “I’m not sure what your intent was, but I’m going to report this incident to the NCAA.”

  Coach Landry held up a hand. “Now wait a minute, Lou. Take a few moments to calm down before you decide anything. This is very important. Division I schools are under a lot of scrutiny these days, and we don’t want to do anything to jeopardize Waylon. We also don’t want to falsely accuse Coach Dufrene of misconduct.”

  The anger rampaging inside her abated a bit. David was right. This incident could affect Waylon. Not her. No need to smudge anything. Yet. “Fine. I don’t have time for this today anyhow. I have a job to get back to, and I’m already late.”

  Abram stared at her. “Louise, I didn’t know you were Waylon’s guardian. If you think about it, you’ll see I was merely in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “Don’t tell me what to think.”

  Abram shrugged his big, delicious shoulders, and for a moment hot regret flooded her, a sort of longing for what might have been if it had been the right place and the right time.

  Waylon’s high school coach spread his hands. “We need to keep Waylon out in front of this. The incidental contact can be reported. It’s not something that needs to be swept under the rug. Hell, it’s a small state. I run into people unexpectedly all the time, so these things happen.”

  “It’s policy at ULBR not to sweep anything under the rug, Coach,” Abram said, propping his hands on his hips. With that simple action, Lou felt the balance shift in the room. “As soon as I leave, I’ll report the incident to Coach Holt and the compliance department. I don’t think anything further will be required, Miss Boyd. If compliance or the NCAA get in touch with you, tell the truth.”

  But not the whole truth, she thought. No way would she reveal how well they got to know each other. She didn’t think Abram would be willing to do so, either. They met, they danced once and they shared a drink. Period. End of story.

  “Fine,” she said, turning the doorknob. “I’ve got to go. That dirt won’t move itself.”

  “Later, Lou,” David said.

  “Louise?”

  She hesitated, the door only slightly ajar.

  “Had I known, I would never have continued the contact. I’ll likely be the coach recruiting Waylon, and I hope you won’t hold this incident against me. I truly have the best interests of your brother and the reputation of my institution in the forefront here. Don’t doubt that.”

  She nodded and walked out.

  What else could she do?

  Both she and the too-delicious-to-have-even-contemplated-in-the-first-place coach had screwed up—and the innocent might end up suffering because she wanted to play Cinderella.

  Something ached in her chest, a sort of regret for what would not be. Not that she’d entertained ideas about the man who’d made her feel enchanting as they danced beneath the moonlight. She’d known he was passing through, but the regret was for having the moment in the first place.

  Did she think anything could have been different?

  She was who she was, and she’d figured out many years ago her situation wouldn’t change until Waylon and Lori claimed lives of their own. Since their parents had died, she’d tried to keep Waylon and Lori’s interests above hers. Not because she was a c
razed martyr, but because they were all she had left. All she had to ensure something good would result from her temporarily giving up her dreams. She needed them to be safe and happy. Needed them to succeed. Because if they could get out of Bonnet Creek and reach their goals, then so could she.

  Maybe it was selfish.

  But she needed Waylon to go to college, to get a full ride. She needed Lori to do well on her SAT, to get her own free ride. She needed to see her sacrifice pay off. Really needed to know all those nights she baked cookies for snack day, turned down dates to attend school plays and called out spelling words had been worthwhile.

  Okay, yeah. It was definitely selfish.

  But it didn’t change the fact her future lay in Lori and Waylon succeeding.

  And not in pursuing crazy romantic fantasies like a twelve-year-old, starstruck girl.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  PICOU DUFRENE BLEW out the candles and everyone seated around the gleaming dining room table gave an obligatory clap.

  “Happy 65th birthday, Mom,” Abram said from his place at the end of the table. He’d intentionally sat away from his sister because trying to carry on a conversation with Sally was more uncomfortable than hemorrhoids.

  Not that he’d ever had hemorrhoids. But he could imagine.

  Sally had come back into their lives only five months before and the transition hadn’t been easy. They all walked around each other like mines were planted beneath Beau Soleil’s polished floors and body parts might fly at any moment.

  “Thank you,” Picou said, plucking a candle from the cake Lucille had made from scratch and sucking the frosting off. “Delicious, Lucille, as always.”

  Lucille sat next to his mother, like a round, black cherub, smiling at the compliment. She’d been at Beau Soleil for as long as Abram could remember, and she was the best friend Picou had. Scratch that, Lucille was family.

  “I know what you like, Picou. Real buttercream frosting just like my Aunt Lula Mae used to make for the governor, and that man wasn’t half the person you are. You more deservin’ than that ol’ rat.”

  His mother laughed, and everyone else smiled. Abram’s brother Nate and his wife Annie took the cake to the antique sideboard and started slicing generous pieces onto Picou’s Royal Doulton wedding china, adding the sterling forks to each plate. The sterling had belonged to Picou’s mother. All things at Beau Soleil were useful and priceless—the Old South way.

  Sally sat quietly, her big eyes taking in the atypical family dinner. His younger sister wasn’t accustomed to their ways since she’d been taken when she was three years old by the family gardener. Sal Comeaux and his partner, who was due for parole in a few months, had concocted a kidnapping scheme that went afoul. They’d taken Della, now known as Sally, and left a ransom note in the Dufrene sugar mill. Sal was supposed to kill Della, but somehow couldn’t bring himself to do so. He’d taken the child to his grandmother, a tough old Bayou woman, and passed her off as family before he himself disappeared. The Dufrenes had spent twenty-four years believing Della to be dead.

  She might have stayed unknown to them if the woman who’d raised her, Enola Cheramie, hadn’t fallen ill. Failing kidneys led to Sally being tested, a careless remark about blood markers had led to questions, and an inquiry at the Lafourche Sheriff’s office had led to a file being placed on his brother Nate’s desk.

  Nate had worked with the St. Martin Parish detective unit for over ten years, and when he’d received the file on Sally Cheramie, he had known they’d finally gotten a lead on Della’s disappearance. It had almost been too much to hope for, but Nate said when he saw Sally Cheramie for the first time, he knew he’d found his sister.

  Sally had her twin brother Darby’s eyes—uniquely violet-blue—and mirrored the young Picou in her wedding portraits. But physical similarities only went so far. Sally wouldn’t open up to them and the gulf between her and the family never seemed to shrink.

  “I certainly wish Darby could be here,” Picou sighed, patting Sally’s hand. Sally swallowed and Abram could see she wanted to move her hand. The girl they’d once called Della was like a cat in a room of rockers when she was among the Dufrenes. “He’ll be home before too long, and he can’t wait to see you.”

  Nate turned from the sideboard and glanced at his sister.

  Sally tried to smile. “It’ll be nice to meet him finally. Well, I suppose it’s more like see him again. When does he resign his commission?”

  She spoke with a heavy accent—a distinct dialect spoken by the people inhabiting the bayou south of Cutoff, Louisiana. With a slender frame, long dark hair and bright blue eyes, Sally drew people to her with quiet, unassuming beauty. The woman who raised her had pushed her to excel in school so she might leave the bayou and spread her wings. Sally had used the education she’d gained at ULL to become a teacher, and currently taught second grade in the school she’d once attended in Galliano. She hadn’t stretched her wings very wide, and instead clung to the community and the still-ill Enola Cheramie.

  He wondered if she would ever accept being the long-lost Della Dufrene.

  “Do you not remember Darby at all, Sally?” Annie asked, setting a dessert plate in front of Abram. He looked at the huge piece of cake. He’d be doing an extra mile tomorrow morning for this indulgence. He picked up the fork.

  Sally frowned. “Not really, though I must have missed him when I was little. I called my blankie Dobby.”

  Abram listened with half an ear after that. What lay ahead for him had his stomach twisting. He couldn’t put to bed all that had passed earlier that week—not with an early morning meeting with compliance and the director of recruiting on Monday. Afterward, he’d face Coach Holt before the man headed out to Bristol to film a commercial for ESPN. Abram didn’t want to see the disappointment in his mentor’s eyes.

  After having a brush with the NCAA over the use of a shady recruiting service and allegations of “pay for players,” the powers-that-be at ULBR were gun-shy about any other incidents popping up within the program. Small things could be dealt with. They happened. But a newsworthy splash like a sex scandal would do lasting damage and jeopardize the reputation of a program, not to mention cost things like scholarships and bowl games. And all Abram had intended for himself, all his dreams of one day becoming a head coach of a Division I team, would come crashing down around him.

  Abram wished it would all go away. Wished he could undo missing the damn exit and stopping for a beer. Wished he’d told Mary Belle an emphatic no when she’d asked him to pretend to be Louise’s date.

  But if wishes were horses, beggars would ride.

  Or at least that’s what Lucille had always told him when he wished for cookies, something fun to do or better grades on his report card.

  Lucille winked at him. He’d always had a special bond with the Dufrene family housekeeper. There was a woman who “got” him. And a woman who’d fed him, counseled him and swatted him on his backside when he got too uppity.

  “Abram, you’re quiet as a sinner in church tonight. Hellcat run away with your tongue?” Lucille’s gap-toothed smile prodded him to enter the fray. Hellcat was the ragged-ear tom that appeared last month yowling for a bowl of scraps and saucer of milk every night. No one seemed to own Hellcat. Couldn’t catch him long enough to mark him with ownership.

  “Sorry. Lots on my mind. The job.”

  “Saw the spring game. Matt Vincent has some work to do. Missed more receivers than he hit.” Nate slapped another piece of cake on his own plate. “Damn, this is better than sex, Lucille.”

  Lucille looked at Annie. “You must be doing something wrong, child.”

  Annie nearly choked on her coffee.

  Picou laughed, Lucille cackled and even Sally looked mildly amused.

  “Behave, Lucille. She hasn’t married me yet and I don’t want you scaring her off with your uncouth ways.” Nate grinned, sliding his eyes to his fiancée. She lifted an eyebrow and Abram felt the love between the two of them. Nice to see N
ate happy.

  Nate looked back at Abram, refusing to let him fade into the background. When it came to his family Abram had always liked the background. If he stayed quiet long enough, sometimes they forgot about him. Suited a lone wolf like him just fine. Or at least most of the time. “So, what’s up with Vincent?”

  Abram shrugged. “Ask Monty. He’s the quarterback coach.”

  “Yeah, I’ll get him on the horn. I have him on speed dial,” Nate drawled as Annie elbowed him. “Aren’t you an offensive coach? Shouldn’t you know?”

  “You didn’t hear? I’m the water boy.”

  “Come on, boys, let’s not start,” Picou warned, her fork clattering on the china.

  Abram snapped his mouth closed and tried to figure some way to get out of there early. His mother was to open gifts after dinner. Abram never knew what to give her, so he’d purchased a gift certificate from a Baton Rouge salon. Standard son gift—not creative, but useful.

  “When are we opening gifts?” Annie asked, nudging Nate again. His soon-to-be sister-in-law was perky, fit and pretty with brown curly hair and clear gray eyes. She was a former FBI agent and had met Nate while on an assignment in Bayou Bridge. Five months ago, after finding Della, they’d formed a partnership in a private investigations firm specializing in unsolved murders. Using grants and Nate’s savings, they’d hit the ground running, solving a case in Alexandria that had put them in the spotlight and brought more business their way.

  Annie had been good for his brother if the smiles were any indication. Before Annie, Nate had rarely smiled. After Annie, he sometimes resembled a blooming idiot.

  “Let’s go into Picou’s sitting room,” Lucille suggested, scooting her chair back and grunting as she rose. “You come on with me, Miss Sally girl. I found something of yours the other day when I was cleaning out the cabinets in there.”

  Lucille didn’t wait on Sally. She waddled out and expected everyone to follow. Like sheep they moved their chairs back.

  “Hold on,” Nate mumbled, shoving the last bite into his mouth.

  The sitting room was like every room in the house, filled with posh antiques that had been well used. The fabrics on the chairs and window had been expensive and well maintained, if not out of style by fifteen or twenty years. Family pictures squatted between costly oils and original sculptures. The carpet on the floor was a threadbare Aubusson.