Page 8 of The Cajun Doctor

She should shut up, but she had to ask, “So you never loved me?”

“Get real!” He gave her another of those insulting once-overs. “As if! Now, you’re going to go inside that courtroom and drop this complaint for termination of alimony, or—”

“Or what?”

He shook her until her teeth practically rattled. “I know where you live, Sammie. Remember that.”

“What? Are you threatening me?”

Nick had been a heartache during their marriage and an expensive pain in the ass since then, but he’d never threatened violence before. This was something new, and, truthfully, a little scary.

“I’m not afraid of you,” she lied. “You are the biggest mistake of my life, and I’m done paying for it.”

As voices came closer, he released her and turned on his heels, but, before he stormed away, he said, “You’ll be done, all right, unless you back down.”

She decided not to tell Luc about Nick’s actions. Not just yet. She didn’t want to get involved in filing a complaint with the police, which is what Luc would surely demand. Not just yet. And truth to tell, she was a bit rattled.

Samantha was an educated woman. And a wealthy one. Her family owned Starr Foods, a chain of supermarkets throughout the South. Her grandfather, Stanley Starr, a Yankee carpetbagger from Boston whose family had emigrated from Scotland, founded Starr Foods with a little French Quarter grocery store after World War II. There were now more than a hundred stores. Thus, she was guaranteed a healthy income for life. Not that she didn’t work for it, both in the accounting department and as director of the Hope Foundation, the umbrella organization for Starr Wishes and Jude’s Angels, the latter being Tante Lulu’s brainchild.

To outsiders, Samantha appeared independent and confident. And she was good-looking, dammit, no matter what Nick said. Not beautiful, but attractive.

Despite all that, by the time she returned to her Garden District home that evening, she felt shattered. Forget about physical threats, her ex-husband wounded her with words, every single time.

What she needed was a Prince Charming to rescue her.

Nah.

She would settle for a suit of armor, or thicker skin.

Chapter Two

What’s your theme, baby? . . .

One week after his mother’s death, a still reeling Daniel LeDeux stood in her backyard.

Don Ho was belting out “Tiny Bubbles” from the loudspeakers. A pig was roasting on a monster rental spit in the backyard, which was decorated with sand and fake palm trees. Among the fifty or so guests were men wearing garish, floral, Hawaiian shirts and women dazzling in sarongs or skimpy, fake grass skirt outfits, all accented by artificial leis. Luckily, the weather had cooperated. While normally the July temps in Alaska didn’t go above the sixties, it was in the low eighties today. Everyone sipped at drinks adorned with pineapple slices and little umbrellas. Macadamia nuts were heaped in one bowl, and a questionable grayish purple poi of three different consistencies was available for one, two, or three-finger dipping. Those who had already overimbibed on the coladas were dancing in a wacky hula-style conga line that skirted all four sides of the house.

It was the best luau Juneau, Alaska had ever seen.

At the same time, it was the wackiest funeral Daniel and Aaron had ever attended. Unfortunately, the guest of honor was their mother, whose body, donated to science, had already winged its way to the Johns Hopkins research facility in Baltimore more than seven days ago.

“I feel a little guilty,” Aaron confessed to him. “Like we should be howling with grief, instead of partying.”

Daniel shook his head. “No need. She was in so much pain. Even morphine didn’t cut it near the end.”

As a single parent, their mother had struggled to bring twins into the world, care for them while attending college and medical school, and provide a loving home for thirty-odd years. Her death was a monumental loss to both of them. But, really, they’d said their good-byes to her months ago, when she’d still been able to put two coherent sentences together.

He squeezed his brother’s arm.

“Cancer is a bitch,” Aaron said.

You’re telling me! Try watching a ten-year-old kid wither away to nothing.

“You boys havin’ a good time?” Aunt Mel asked, giving each of them a hug.

“Just super!” Daniel remarked.

Smiles twitched at their lips as they viewed her attire. She was a native Aleut, except for some Russian blood contributed by an anonymous grandfather, thus her height of five-foot-eight. Despite a huge appetite, Mel had always been skinny. Now, she had her almost nonexistent hips tucked into a grass skirt riding way too low on her butt. Halved coconuts looked like torpedoes covering her breasts, which were also practically nonexistent. A circle of lavender orchids lay atop her permed, bottle blond hair. On a chain about her neck hung a half of a silver heart pendant to match the one their mother had always worn. Although Mel had a smile on her mouth, her eyes were red-rimmed from crying.