Pamela Morsi by The Love Charm Read Free Book Online

you forgot completely to cook for him today.
And he confessed to us that he often finds dishes half-washed and
beds half-made, and claims that since the death of your mother, no
pot of beans has ever been cooked in your home without
scorching."
    Aida flushed. The teasing of the young men,
the outrageous compliments were fun and a frivolous pleasure. The
reality of her featherbrained ways was forever her cross to bear.
She tried to remember things, to do things right, to stay with one
task until it was done. But always her mind would wander and her
work would be left unfinished and her beans burning over the
fire.
    "I feel very badly about Poppa," she
admitted, accepting a huge slice of bread from the woman. "I wish I
were a better daughter. He deserves better, I know."
    The woman huffed, still disapproving. But
Aida knew that it was difficult to continue a disagreement if one
person resisted the impulse to disagree.
    At that moment Father Denis approached the
table,
    in the middle of what seemed to be a heated
argument with Oscar Benoit and Clerville Pujal.
    Aida welcomed a chance to slip away from the
table and Madame LeBlanc. Plate in hand, she headed for the leafy
overhang of the lilas. Her eyes searching the crowd for Laron, she
was startled when she bumped into a figure in the tree's
shadow.
    "Oh pardon!" she cried, startled.
    "It is my fault," he apologized.
    Aida turned to find herself eye to eye with
Armand Sonnier. Like nearly everyone else on this prairie, she had
known Armand Sonnier all her life. They had grown up together. Aida
remembered him being ill much of the time as a boy.
    "Any day that child could sicken and die,"
she had once heard one of the old women say.
    Aida had been stunned and frightened at the
prospect. Her mother had died, though Aida hardly recalled it. One
day she was there and the next not. Father Denis said that her
mother had gone to a better place, and at four years old Aida had
accepted that. But when the little brown-faced calf had been killed
in a drowning bog, she had been inconsolable. She'd cried for a
week. How much more it must hurt, she surmised, to lose a friend
than an animal. From that day forward, she had always run to Armand
first, eager to assure herself that he was well and strong and that
she would see him again tomorrow.
    After he grew out of his poor health and
joined the other young men in fun and frolic, Aida had tagged
behind and pestered him. He was clever and funny and patient with
her. Although she was rather silly
    and not smart, he treated her kindly, as if
he really liked her. He was not big and brawny, but he always took
up for her when she was teased. He was quietly her champion. Her
smile brightened at the sight of him.
    "Monsieur, I did not see you here," she
said.
    He nodded. "I'm sure you did not."
    Armand Sonnier, looking fashionable and
elegant in black Creole trousers and a long blue coat, stood
privately in the darkness of the chinaberry tree. He had once been
her hero. Now he was only the best friend of her fiancé.
    "Are you avoiding your escort?" he asked.
    "What? Oh no, I mean ... I forgot about
Monsieur Granger," she admitted as she raised her generously laden
dish, offering him samples of the dinner fare. "Would you care to
join me? I am hiding from the matrons at the table. They find fault
with me tonight."
    "And why is that?" Armand asked, taking only
a tasty corner of roux-soaked bread.
    Aida shook her head shamefully. "My poor
father arrived here hungry once more. I cannot seem to remember to
cook for him."
    "Perhaps each morning you should tie three
strings upon your fingers," he suggested. "And when all are gone at
the end of the day, you will know that you have fed your father
adequately."
    "That might work," she agreed with a little
giggle. "If only I could remember where I keep the string."
    They ate together companionably for several
minutes. Armand devoured the crawfish and cabbage while Aida
merely picked at the capon pasties. It felt