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“Come taste and see,” called Hale, walking back to the pot. “I have no doubt I’ll get the honest truth out of you.”
Miss Lucille was stacking bowls, spoons, and napkins to prep for the lines on the other side of the tent.
“Miss Lucille, can you please pass me a bowl?”
The bowls were actually small tasting cups. Since locals liked to sample several different gumbos, they bought tickets for the same-sized tasting bowls at each booth. But they could also buy the leftovers by the pint at the end of the day. If there was anything left. We had very little in past cookoffs. Hale was a seriously good cook.
I tugged Betty around the table and under our tent, reluctant to let go of her soft hand when Hale handed over a bowl.
She took it with a smile and tasted a spoonful, her blue eyes widening. “Damn. That is really, really good.”
“Does she lie often?” he asked me.
“She always tells the truth. Whether you want to hear it or not.”
She scoffed. “There’s no point in wasting breath, dancing around what needs to be said.” She took another bite and closed her eyes in pleasure.
Fuck. Just like that, I was hard as a rock.
“Seriously,” she added, “that’s a winner.”
Hale grinned triumphantly. “Well then, that earned you some time off, big brother. You two kids go have fun. I can hold down the fort.”
“You sure?”
I’d asked Hale earlier if he’d mind. He’d whined and complained and told me no girl was worth me selling out the family’s prestigious place in the top five at the last eight Gumbo Cookoffs. And now he was shooing me away like I was a nuisance. He liked her.
Grinning, I gave him a wave. “Thanks, man.”
“No problem. Betty has declared me a winner.”
“Your gumbo is a winner. Not you,” she clarified.
“Potato, po-tah-to.” Hale shrugged.
“Come on,” I laughed, tugging her away before he changed his mind.
Lacing our fingers together, I hauled her closer so that we brushed shoulders when we walked. I couldn’t help it. I wanted her against me, on top of me, underneath me. I could hardly handle this insane need to be with her nonstop. What was this mania?
Infatuation? Obsession? Something more?
“Let’s go see my mom at the Tractor Supply booth. Her boyfriend Dan is a manager for them.”
“Gotcha.”
“This way.”
We meandered through a long row. I read some of the other booths’ gumbo signs to see what was on the menu for the day. As usual, there was a wide variety, from chicken and sausage to seafood to alligator and andouille.
Betty started bobbing as she walked to the tempo of a live Zydeco band that had just started playing. The stage was behind the last booth with a roped-off area for dancers.
“There they are,” she called over her shoulder.
I exhaled a heavy breath as we stopped in front of the Tractor Supply booth next to a woman several inches shorter than Betty. Same creamy pale skin, her hair a shade darker, streaked with a little gray. Her clothes were relaxed, hippie-ish, her long hair twisted on top of her head. She wore the same carefree expression on her face as Betty but aged with soft wrinkles.
Betty was a strange combination of ornery and free-spirited and bold that made her so bewitching.
“Bennett, this is my mom, Karen Mouton.”
