A storm was brewing.
Lightning flashed behind the tilted Venetian blinds and gusts of wind whistled through the poorly sealed frames of the diner’s windows as Amy Hastings quickly wiped down the stainless countertop in preparation of leaving for the evening. Fingers of tree limbs still awaiting the first burst of spring waved like gnarled witch hands outside, casting eerie shadows upon the blinds. The approaching storm outside warned Amy to hurry before it broke over the town of Paradise, Louisiana, the little hamlet she’d called home most of her life. Not wanting to be caught in a thunderstorm in the poorly lit, pot-holed parking lot of the diner, Amy entered the kitchen to give the oven and grill a final once-over before heading home. Just as she rounded the range, thunder clapped following the lightning of a moment earlier, driving a squeal from Amy’s lips and sending her ducking for cover within the shadowed kitchen.
“It’s just a storm, Amy. Get a grip,” she whispered aloud, straightening and attempting to bolster her flagging courage. Hadn’t she always been afraid of thunder and lightning, all the way back to her girlhood? Knowing this, she refused to turn on all the kitchen lights, using only the feeble glow from the parking lot fixtures outside to locate her purse and sweater under the utensil rack. As she reached for her belongings, a slight tinkle of the bell over the diner’s outer door signaled a customer’s entrance, even though the restaurant remained dark and obviously closed for the night. Damn!
Rolling her eyes and wishing she’d gotten the door locked earlier Amy hollered, “We’re closed! Come back tomorrow!”
She paused, waiting to hear the bell jangle again to signal the person’s departure. It didn’t. Only the rising sound of the wind howling around the corners of the diner and the scraping sounds of branches upon the window panes answered her announcement. Staring at the trees’ moving shadows upon the opposite wall, Amy tried to convince herself she’d imagined the sound.
Just when she’d halfway assured herself she’d been mistaken, the wind abated momentarily and Amy distinctly heard a slight shuffle along the dining room floor. She froze, breath arrested in her throat, foot hovering bare inches above the floor as she held her breath and listened. There!... Again! It was the sound of a cautious footstep, as if the owner did not want to be heard. Cocking her head to follow the surreptitious sound on the other side of the swinging door, Amy cast her eyes wildly about for a weapon, any weapon, with which to protect herself. Heartbeat loping now, breathing returning shallow and fast, Amy’s frantic gaze latched onto the cast iron frying pan waiting on the grill top for tomorrow’s breakfast rush.
Reaching out soundlessly, her cold fingers grasped the pan’s handle and she hefted it like a bat, ignoring her slightly trembling arms. Suitably armed and fortified with a deep breath, Amy tip-toed to the hinged kitchen doors and tried to peer through the port hole windows. Too dark.
“Shit!” she breathed, resigned to the obvious. It was time to do or die. Amy promised herself she wouldn’t go down without a fight, sucked in more air, straightened her spine, and shoved through the chrome doors with the fry pan raised and a quavering challenge on her lips, which went unspoken because at that same moment lightning flashed through the closed blinds and another clap of thunder resounded almost directly overhead. Instead she squealed like a school girl, lifting the frying pan over her head like a shield.
As the thunder’s reverberations faded into a muted drumroll, Amy heard a scrape and a hiss to her right, where the flare of a match arrested her attention from behind the skillet. A shape took form in the flickering match light. She watched with widening eyes as a large, long-fingered hand lifted the flame to illuminate a high cheek-boned silhouette around a cigarette dangling from hard, male lips.
“You gonna fry me some eggs with that, darlin’?”The intruder asked around the cigarette he’d just lit, sucking in the nicotine high on a cloud of smoke, dark eyes reflecting flames trained on Amy.
Although remaining in shadows, Amy recognized her visitor with trepidation and dread; Julien Trudeau, former bad boy of Paradise. She’d heard he’d returned; had even seen him from a distance, though she’d carefully avoided him. Lowering the skillet fractionally, Amy watched as he stepped slowly out of the gloom and into the secondary light from the parking lot as it filtered through the shades and onto his face. Her breath caught in her throat, suspended as Amy apprehended the differences thirteen years made on a person, especially this person. Of medium height, Trudeau remained as slim and wiry as an eighteen-year-old, but there the resemblance to the high school youth she’d fumbled with in the backseat of his car ended. Oh, he still had the bladed cheekbones and sinfully dark eyes that had promised a rebellious cheerleader excitement and thrills, but now the stubbled face and tousled, chin-length, ebony hair over his eyes gave him a new air of danger, as did his smugly glittering gaze.
Even as the storm within Amy grew every bit as turbulent as the one outside was proving to be, she met Trudeau’s stare with one of her own. She reminded herself that even though he’d been gone thirteen years, Julien Trudeau was no stranger to her, and she had no need to fear him. Hopefully.
With that mantra drifting through her subconscious, Amy busied herself by placing the frying pan carefully onto the counter before leaning a hip against one of the swivel stools and crossing her arms over her breasts.
“Hello, Julien. Long time no see,” she commented, attempting nonchalance while inside mentally kicking herself. Is that the snappiest line you can come up with? She asked herself silently.
His steady regard through smoke rings became unnerving, and the continued rumble of thunder and flashes of lightning did not help the situation. Involuntarily she shivered. Julien smirked. Of course he would think his presence enervated her; it did. But he didn’t need to know that. Trudeau leaned carelessly against the antique cash register on the edge of the counter while Amy stiffened her spine against his lazy perusal.
“You’ve been avoiding me around town, darlin’,” he said slowly, drawing out the endearment mockingly while mimicking her stance by crossing his arms over his chest. The leather jacket he wore crinkled at the movement.
Nonchalance fled as Amy found herself studying those well-developed arms, remembering a time when they’d clasped her tight against that hard chest, when they’d protected her from the wrongs of a teenaged world gone cockeyed. When their embrace promised never to let her go…
“I didn’t know you were in town,” she replied flippantly, angry at herself for dredging up those sentimental memories of a girl and a boy swallowed up long ago by every day real life. Stalling, Amy turned and brushed uselessly at the already spotless counter, but nearly jumped out of her skin when he quickly reached out and lightly grabbed hold of her chin, tilting it upwards to face him.
Leaning forward within inches of her lips Trudeau breathed, “Liar.”
Amy’s eyes shot to his, attempting to ignore the zing of awareness down her spine from his warm touch burning her skin. Refusing to struggle, she pointedly glanced down at his long, fine-boned fingers, feigning disdain while waiting until Julien finally released her and stepped back. Expelling a breath she hadn’t known she’d held, Amy glared at Trudeau.
“Why are you here, Julien?” Taking advantage of her freedom, Amy moved away from this stranger she’d once known intimately, turning only once she’d placed enough distance between their bodies.
“I just wanted some eggs, darlin’,”he insisted with a mirthless smile, glancing at the skillet and then toward the shadowed windows before returning his umber orbs to hers.
Tossing her head in exasperation and stamping a sneakered foot, Amy snapped, “Like hell, Julien! Why are you back in town? Why would you even bother returning here? I heard you made it big out in L.A., so why come back to li’l ol’ Paradise, Lou’siana?” Thick, Southern accent spilled over Amy’s words like syrup on pancakes, but Julien wasn’t impressed, cocking his head in irritation.
“Cut the cornpone accent, Amy. You know damn well why I’m here.”
Of course she did. But she needed to make him say it, to admit his obsession.
“It’s not yours anymore, Julien. I thought you’d finally accepted that when you left. My brother bought The Manor fair and square when you let it go into foreclosure. I’m sure you’ve built a new life out there in California; go back!” It took all the limited acting skills Amy possessed to feign indifference. She’d always known how much Julien loved his family’s ancestral home. Another crack of thunder with lightning caused her to hunch her shoulders.
“Bullshit!” He spat. “I was in jail on some trumped-up charge your brother managed to make stick long enough to get my place, and you didn’t do anything to stop him. You of all people knew how I felt about The Manor!” Anguish hung between them, thick and reproachful, while the storm outside exploded, whipping rain against the windows like BBs from an air rifle. Similar to the burgeoning storm, Amy found her voice, the voice once silenced by immaturity and insecurity.
“I couldn’t, Julien! I just couldn’t. I wasn’t as strong as I am now. I was only sixteen, for God’s sake!” She’d stopped blaming herself years ago. Still, the doubt niggled occasionally, keeping her up at night once in a while, rolling out the What If game on restless evenings. But looking into that angry expression now, that face hardened almost past the point of recognition as Julien Trudeau seemed to wait for some sort of conciliatory response, Amy realized she wasn’t that sixteen-year-old anymore; she was a woman. A grown woman. One who couldn’t be bullied by her greedy older brother, or by a vengeful old flame.
His belligerent assumption that she would do something to right the wrong he believed had been done to him provided Amy the strength to pull her cell phone out of her apron pocket and brandish it like a weapon, saying, “That’s all water under the bridge, Julien. I’m not my brother’s keeper; nor am I yours. You do what you have to do to help you sleep at night, and I’ll do the same. But right now you’re trespassing.”
Surprise glinted in those dark orbs narrowed on her as Trudeau stubbed out his cigarette on the sole of his shoe, nodding at Amy’s upheld phone and saying sarcastically, “You gonna call me a cab, sweetheart?” He snorted, and then pointed a finger in her direction. “Put it away, Amy. I’m leavin’. But we’re not through. Not me an’ your family, an’ definitely not you an’ me. Now, you’d better lock up, darlin’, before someone dangerous breaks in. You don’t know who might come in outta the rain,” and he shook his head before turning toward the diner’s entrance, moving with panther-like grace right out the door and into the tempest.
As Amy stared after her unwanted visitor, she realized uneasily that the little Southern town of Paradise, Louisiana, the epitome of safety and Southern hospitality, was safe no more. Its prodigal son had returned, but no fatted calf would be served this time. Vengeance was the order of the day. Vengeance and retribution.
A storm was brewing.