knew these stories line by line and was able to tune them out easily. It was the quiet days that troubled her. They were like storms brewing. He always came out of the quiet times angry. Often they could placate him with beer, but this was unpredictable; his anger sometimes stalked them for days.
Delora kept her eyes averted from Louie as they ate and guilt gnawed at her. Why couldn’t she be more compassionate? The sight of Louie eating never failed to spoil her appetite. It wasn’t so much the messy way he ate, more the avid way he ate—face almost in his plate as he loaded his mouth and chewed with bovine persistence. She hated him, that was all. Hated him for stealing her life.
Thief , she mouthed silently as she chewed her toast.
Soon her simple meal was finished, and she stood thankfully to leave the table.
“And where do you think you’re going?” Louie’s voice arrested her.
Delora paused in the act of rinsing her plate in the sink.
“To work, Louie,” she answered quietly.
“I don’t think so. I’m seeing Franklin at the park this morning and I’ll be needing you for my bath.”
“Louie, I can’t. I have to be at work by eight thirty on greenhouse days. You know that.”
Louie slammed his fork next to his plate, the clanking sound as it glanced off the plate making Delora cringe. “I’ve spoken, Delora. And I don’t want to hear backtalk.”
Delora chewed her bottom lip and clutched her robe more tightly about her neck. Rosalie had paused in eating her breakfast and was watching Delora with jaundiced eyes.
“So what, you want me to lose this job? Who’ll buy the groceries then? Do you want us to be living in the streets?” Delora spoke without thinking.
Louie sat back in his chair, heels of his palms pressed against the table edge. “You’re skating on thin ice, Delora.”
Delora turned to Rosalie, her mouth working helplessly.
Rosalie sighed as if the weight of the world rested on her shoulders. “Stop it, you two. Yes, Delora, I’ll get him ready and to the park. Just get your ass on out of here.”
Delora glanced doubtfully at Louie. He sat immobile, but she could tell the battle was over. She muttered a grateful thanks to Rosalie and hurried to her room.
Chapter Eleven
Salamander House was unusually quiet Tuesday morning. Sophie rolled over in bed and stretched, feeling blood move into her feet and hands. She wiggled her fingers and toes, marveling at the wonderful rightness of the Universe’s creation.
She paused to gauge her mood. She felt alone again today. These days it seemed her mind realized too often that there was no one out there for Sophie. She was a partner to the Bayou Lisse and that was all. The bayou was a jealous mistress and would let no one else aboard.
“Pshaw,” Sophie muttered aloud as she turned onto her stomach. She ground her hips into the mattress slowly, enjoying the push and pull against her pubis. She sighed and stilled, cupping her chin with a closed fist, allowing mind to rule body. Who could love a thirty-year-old swamp witch anyway?
She thought of saucy Massie Styles, rebel child and scandal of Tyson County. She would welcome Sophie, and their coupling would be fun, accompanied by laughter and a good bit of rough-and-tumble desire. She could smell the tangy yarrow-like smell of Massie’s hair and feel her coarse, deeply-tanned skin under her right hand. She clenched that hand, alone in her bed, and realized that wasn’t what she wanted. Not really. Being with Massie satiated that need for woman-flesh for a while, but it didn’t go very deep, didn’t touch the places Sophie needed to have touched.
Sophie rolled onto her back and stared at the rippled texture of the ceiling. She spied her favorite gnome peeking at her, revealed by a curve of plaster that defined his hat and one chubby cheek. He’d been there for years, conversing with her since she was a small child.
“Too alone’s not good, Mankin,” she told him with a
Delora kept her eyes averted from Louie as they ate and guilt gnawed at her. Why couldn’t she be more compassionate? The sight of Louie eating never failed to spoil her appetite. It wasn’t so much the messy way he ate, more the avid way he ate—face almost in his plate as he loaded his mouth and chewed with bovine persistence. She hated him, that was all. Hated him for stealing her life.
Thief , she mouthed silently as she chewed her toast.
Soon her simple meal was finished, and she stood thankfully to leave the table.
“And where do you think you’re going?” Louie’s voice arrested her.
Delora paused in the act of rinsing her plate in the sink.
“To work, Louie,” she answered quietly.
“I don’t think so. I’m seeing Franklin at the park this morning and I’ll be needing you for my bath.”
“Louie, I can’t. I have to be at work by eight thirty on greenhouse days. You know that.”
Louie slammed his fork next to his plate, the clanking sound as it glanced off the plate making Delora cringe. “I’ve spoken, Delora. And I don’t want to hear backtalk.”
Delora chewed her bottom lip and clutched her robe more tightly about her neck. Rosalie had paused in eating her breakfast and was watching Delora with jaundiced eyes.
“So what, you want me to lose this job? Who’ll buy the groceries then? Do you want us to be living in the streets?” Delora spoke without thinking.
Louie sat back in his chair, heels of his palms pressed against the table edge. “You’re skating on thin ice, Delora.”
Delora turned to Rosalie, her mouth working helplessly.
Rosalie sighed as if the weight of the world rested on her shoulders. “Stop it, you two. Yes, Delora, I’ll get him ready and to the park. Just get your ass on out of here.”
Delora glanced doubtfully at Louie. He sat immobile, but she could tell the battle was over. She muttered a grateful thanks to Rosalie and hurried to her room.
Chapter Eleven
Salamander House was unusually quiet Tuesday morning. Sophie rolled over in bed and stretched, feeling blood move into her feet and hands. She wiggled her fingers and toes, marveling at the wonderful rightness of the Universe’s creation.
She paused to gauge her mood. She felt alone again today. These days it seemed her mind realized too often that there was no one out there for Sophie. She was a partner to the Bayou Lisse and that was all. The bayou was a jealous mistress and would let no one else aboard.
“Pshaw,” Sophie muttered aloud as she turned onto her stomach. She ground her hips into the mattress slowly, enjoying the push and pull against her pubis. She sighed and stilled, cupping her chin with a closed fist, allowing mind to rule body. Who could love a thirty-year-old swamp witch anyway?
She thought of saucy Massie Styles, rebel child and scandal of Tyson County. She would welcome Sophie, and their coupling would be fun, accompanied by laughter and a good bit of rough-and-tumble desire. She could smell the tangy yarrow-like smell of Massie’s hair and feel her coarse, deeply-tanned skin under her right hand. She clenched that hand, alone in her bed, and realized that wasn’t what she wanted. Not really. Being with Massie satiated that need for woman-flesh for a while, but it didn’t go very deep, didn’t touch the places Sophie needed to have touched.
Sophie rolled onto her back and stared at the rippled texture of the ceiling. She spied her favorite gnome peeking at her, revealed by a curve of plaster that defined his hat and one chubby cheek. He’d been there for years, conversing with her since she was a small child.
“Too alone’s not good, Mankin,” she told him with a
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