The Red-Hot Cajun by Sandra Hill Read Free Book Online Page B

Val’s midnight chat with I-have-an-opinion-on-every-freakin’-thing-in-the-world Tante Lulu.
    “Did it ever occur to you that not every woman yearns to be a baby machine?”
    “Ya gots the hips fer it.”
    Valerie bristled. “Are you saying I’m fat?”
    “No. Jist that some wimmen try to deny whass obvious.”
    “And that would be?”
    “That they’s made fer bein’ mothers.”
    “What makes you think I would be a good mother... not that I have any inclinations in that direction?”
    “Best ya be careful, girlie, or yer time clock’s gonna explode in yer face one of these days.”
    “What the hell does that mean?”
    “No need to be swearin’. St. Jude’s in the house, you know.”
    Actually there were tacky St. Jude statues all over the place, inside and out. The old lady had a thing about decorating in a saintly style, and she imposed it on her nephews as well.
    “What it means is that sometimes a body keeps sayin’ they doan want somethin’, over and over, almos’ like they’s tryin’ to convince themselves. Then, when they finally wake up and realize they really did want it after all, it’s too late.”
    “Is that your long-winded way of saying I don’t know what I want?”
    “Well, alls I’m sayin’ is doan wait till yer hormones is rusty afore gettin’ a lightbulb moment.”
    Rusty hormones? That is just super. Now I’ll be picturing my body parts rusting out “Doan take it personal, though.”
    Oh, no. There’s nothing personal about rusting femaleness. “Listen, I know you mean well”— actually, I don’t know that, but I can be diplomatic when I want to be —”but I’ve just never had an inclination to clone myself, or cuddle babies, or provide an heir for some man. My goals lie in other directions.”
    “Like?”
    “Like being the next Barbara Walters. Like having my own television show. Like being influential—the top of the heap.”
    “Ya sound jist like yer mother. I see her real estate ads on TV all the time. Betcha she could sell a house to a turtle.”
    “I am not like my mother,” Valerie said icily. “Not at all.”
    Her tone must have seeped into the old biddy’s thick head because she patted her on the belly. Tante Lulu had probably been aiming for her arm and missed. “I know yer not like Simone. I jist meant yer ambitious like she is. Those developments that she put in outside Houma musta raked in millions fer her.
    Bayou Paradise, she calls it.”
    Valerie felt herself blush. “I can imagine what Rene and his tree-hugging cohorts must think of that.”
    “They calls it Bayou Parasites.”
    Valerie cringed. She didn’t have to be a rocket scientist or an environmentalist to know the effect those luxury homes with their swimming pools and man-made lagoons must be having on the bayou ecosystem. Not that her mother would care about that.
    Hell, I don’t care, either. Well, hardly. Ok ay, I do care, but I prefer not to think about it.
    “What I meant when I said you and yer mama were alike is that yer both ambitious,” Tante Lulu emphasized again.
    “And that’s a bad thing?”
    “I din’t say that. There’s good ambition and bad ambition. Besides, who says wimmen cain’t be ambitious and have a family? Even Barbara Walters had a bebe, dint she?”
    “I think so, but if you can’t give a hundred percent to something, whether it’s a child or a career, you shouldn’t do it.”
    “Hmmm. I wonder if you feel this way ‘cause yer an only child. Betcha if you’d had a brother or a sister, you’d feel different.”
    “Hah! My mother and Joan Crawford were cut from the same mold. I shudder to think what she’d have done with more than one child.”
    Tante Lulu reached over to pat her again, and this time she didn’t miss her forearm. “I heard stuff ‘bout how she treated you a long time ago, but it hardly seemed true.”
    Oh, great! People had known about her abuse, or suspected it. That’s all she needed. Pity. Maybe back then, it might