Page 23 of The Cajun Doctor

“I beg to differ. Does ‘my brother’s keeper’ ring any bells?”

“That brother’s keeper bullshit was old the first time you said it. By now, it stinks like a loaded diaper.”

“You’re depressed.”

“So the hell what?”

“Ever since you quit medicine and Mom died . . . hell, ever since we came to Louisiana two years ago, you’ve become more and more withdrawn,” Aaron went on, ignoring Daniel’s comment. “And that’s despite the warm welcome extended to us by all the LeDeux family.”

“Except for our slimy no-good father.” To say Valcour LeDeux hadn’t laid out the welcome mat was a vast understatement. He was more worried that they might want something from him, like money.

“Daddy Dearest doesn’t count.” Aaron wasn’t about to let him divert his attention as he continued on his tirade. “Those years spent with sick and dying kids killed something inside you, Dan. All that on top of losing Mom.”

“So now you’ve become Dr. Phil of the Bayou?”

“Whatever works. Anyhow, look around you. Bayou Rose Plantation is a gem just waiting to be polished.”

“More like sandblasted.” His brain snagged on something Aaron had said. “You bought a house with a name? Bayou Rose Plantation? A better name would be Weed Jungle.”

“Tsk-tsk! It hasn’t been an operating sugar plantation for well over a hundred years. This stretch of the bayou was wider back then and deep enough for flatboats.”

“Crap! Now you’re gonna give me a history lecture.” Daniel raised his eyes heavenward, as if for assistance.

“I prefer to call it a mini-mansion with commercial development prospects.”

“Now you’re a Dixie entrepreneur, as well as a historian. Have you lost your mind?”

“No more than usual. C’mon. Hop in. I’ll give you the tour.”

He got in the passenger side of the truck, and Aaron turned the motor on, moving slowly up the horseshoe-shaped driveway to the front steps, which were located more than two hundred yards from Bayou Black, via a sloping overgrown lawn, through a canopied alleé of live oaks dripping moss. After parking, Aaron sat quietly for a moment, for dramatic effect, no doubt, taking in the ambience—Can anyone say creepy?—then grinned. “Actually, I didn’t buy a mansion, Danny boy. We bought a mansion.”

Daniel turned slowly, inch by inch, to stare at him. It was the stare he’d perfected to make nurses and interns cower.

Pilots were immune, apparently, because Aaron just grinned. Some more.

“You didn’t!” Daniel ripped out.

“I did,” he said cheerily. Reaching over to open the glove compartment, he handed him the official sales agreement with the bank loan document attached. Both of their names were on them.

“You forged my name.”

“Yep.”

“Why?”

“You have a better credit rating than I do.”

“Son. Of. A. Bitch! How did you manage it?”

“Combed my hair like a nerd, wore sunglasses and dorky clothes.” Aaron tended to wear jeans and T-shirts most of the time while Daniel preferred Dockers and golf shirts. “Oh, and I perfected your frowny face.”

Daniel frowned at him. “There’s no way you could have gotten away with that. Don’t all parties have to be present at a closing?”

“Not when you have Tante Lulu on your side with her friends in high places.”

That explained it. The old lady seemed to be able to get around all kinds of regulations and red tape with her network of friends and politicians.

“We’re not nine years old anymore, Aaron. You can’t keep pulling this crap.”