Chapter 24

Barb’s turn:

Homesick. Didn’t KNOW I was homesick. Thought that being here in West Texas with my husband would head those feelings off, but here I am wanting to get back. Christmas holidays. Winter on the Louisiana Gulf Coast. Never gets REALLY cold, just below freezing at the very worst, and I’ve seen snow coming out of the sky exactly ONCE in my fourteen years.

It’s snowed TWICE in Texas, but the natives say that an actual accumulation is rare.

The wind – wow! It’s like it’s straight off a glacier and cuts deep, but it’s not like the cold wind at home, laden with moisture that carries away heat so effectively.

“That’s why Cajuns invented gumbo, little darlin’,” Paul told me. “No soup known to man works as good as a rich, dark, steaming pot of Cajun gumbo. I’m not talking about that vegetable soup Creole crap from New Orleans, either. Cajun.”

This is part of the conversation while we’re driving home. Paul’s project is on hold for Christmas break. We’re going HOME.

We have a few things we must heed on the schedule. Gramma and Grampa. Two or three phone calls every week, but I’d rather that be face to face. Yes. I miss Gramma and Grampa. When we get together we’ll work out how often we get together.

Main thing, though, was I stare out the window at a massive growth of prickly pear cactus (which makes a pretty good jelly, really) is that it’s ME and Paul in our own house again, together.

And we’re going to visit his sister and her family. I’ve never met her face to face. We’ve talked, exchanged emails, occasional texts, pictures. I was a shock to her. She envisioned her brother getting married one day, but not to a teen whackadoodle. Over the last month our relationship has warmed to room temperature.

Paul had her on speaker when he called to tell her that we were married. He got reamed because she wasn’t informed ahead of the event, that she couldn’t participate, that she never met me, and that I was fourteen.

I called her back and told her that she’d upset my husband. Gotta start somewhere. I wanted to be friend and family and aunt to her little girl. She bought that, it seems. “Stranger things have happened,” was her comment.

So early in our return is a face-to-face meeting. I’m bringing cookies.

I even called her when we left the RV park. “Just so somebody knows we’re on the road. You know...”

“You really do take care for him, don’t you?” she asked me.

“I do. Clarissa, I know what the age number usually means, but I’m really NOT that. I saw the other kind, a new ‘love of my life’ every two weeks. This isn’t that.” I glanced sideways at Paul. Yes, of course he’s paying attention.

“Tell ‘er I said ‘hi’.

“Paul says ‘hi’. And I’m looking forward to us getting together.”

“I’m sorry,” she replied, “I’m really not a snotty person. It’s just that you are a surprise and Paul hasn’t been the biggest help in getting me over that.”

“I knowwww,” I purred. “Sometimes ... Well, he’s kinda bent. Like me. We work well together. I think that in regard to our issues, the two of us make each of us better.”

“Maybe so. I’ll try to be more mature. It’s just that all my life I think I was able to justify a lot of things because, you know, ‘My brother’s got issues’.”

“Part of what makes him who he is,” I replied. I flashed a thought through my head. I never had a sibling that I know of. I had caring grandparents at home. All my stress came from outsiders.

We wrapped up the phone call. I smiled at Paul. “I might’ve missed a particularly scenic mesquite bush.”

“Several of ‘em. Visiting Sis has me nervous.”

“Don’t be. You and me? We’re a machine. Unstoppable.” I smiled, my hand touching his arm. “And two more hours of driving, then dinner and a motel room, and...”

“And?” he questioned, raising an eyebrow.

“And I am gathering data on the idea that motel rooms raise my libido.” I like watching his face. I still think that deep down he has these thoughts that he’s led me astray or that I ‘put up with him’ for some nebulous reason.

“I’m already doing seventy-five, baby doll.”

“Don’t kill us. I have expectations.” And I do. I find that I like our private spaces, curtains drawn or blinds closed, where we can lounge around nude, play with each other, tease, torture, then collide in delicious fashion.

Which we did after a meal at a local diner and a dual shower. And sleep. And breakfast at the same diner because why not? They were a winner for dinner, okay?

Back on the road. The sere landscape of West Texas was far behind, giving way to hill country interspersed with patches of woods, farms and ranches. After a refueling and sanitation stop, we continued, the open lands giving way to miles and miles of woodlands. When we broke out of that, we were in Louisiana with an hour to drive before home’s door. When we finally arrive there appear to be occupants at two of the other lots. The beachfront doesn’t hold attraction for many people in late December.

Us, though? Grab our bags and load up the lift, then I’m up the stairs with key in hand while Paul attends to getting the bags up there. And inside. Set the thermostat up from the ‘keep things from freezing’ level to something a bit more livable. At least the house dehumidifier has been keeping the humidity down. Paul comes in carrying a couple of bags. I run past him to get the others.

We’re home. A kiss verifies that.

“Call your sister...”

“Why don’t YOU call er’?”

“She’s YOUR sister, love. Make ‘er ... act like you care...”

“Okay ... You call your Gramma.”

“I’ll do that.”

Thus was our safe arrival announced to people who care.

An ice chest we’d brought with us had the perishables that formed this evening’s meal. Opening windows on both sides of the house let the breeze work magic in getting rid of the mustiness of our absence.

And there’s a bed. Our bed. THE bed. And I look at Paul and I grin.

The next morning we’re drinking coffee on the south porch of our house. In the lee of the house, we’re protected from the little breeze. It’s cool, and it’s moist. I realized how different the air was in West Texas. Quite different, really, plus here we’re ten or fifteen degrees warmer.

And we’re looking out over the Gulf. It’s quite placid.

“Home,” I affirmed.

“It is, isn’t it?”

The next morning we ate breakfast – cold cereal and milk we’d transported from West Texas. While we were eating and talking I penned a grocery list to sustain us for the next two weeks here. After we cleared the little table, Paul was surprised at my next move – dragging out my laptop and banging away madly on the keyboard.

“Oat clusters are inspirational?” he asked wryly.

“Gene is learning more about the capabilities of Dragara,” I explained. “I just remembered some of the characteristics of the draco vulgaris in Pratchett’s stories.”

“Don’t be too obvious, but if you’re going to rip off another author, Pratchett is rich ground.”

“Oh, I just got the ideas about his size going, but I want my Dragara to be a little magical and a little headstrong and a little protective about Donnabella, which means he’s causing some strange things in the lives of Gene and Donnabella as they’re interacting with a normal world.”

“Sounds interesting,” Paul returned. “Go for it. I think I’ll try some writing, myself.”

I felt good about my efforts when I shut down as the clock was nearing lunchtime. Lunch was no more than a snack, a peanut butter (Crunchy, thankyouverymuch) and jelly sandwich and the last glug of milk from the jug to chase it. Paul graciously let me have that last glass of milk, stealing a sip to wash down his sandwich.

And now we’re back on the road.

“Over the river and through the woods,” I smirked.

“Precious little woods between us and your grandma’s place.”

“And, okay, no river, just miles of marshes, and the river’s not a river, it’s a bayou and a coulee or two.”

“Story. That ‘Dragara’ bit, a teaser in the last chapter, the one I already sent in. It’s gonna be a major thread in the sequel. I think I can have a lot of fun with a dragon sticking his nose in the middle of modern society.”

“I can see that.”

Gramma hugged the stuffings out of me when we showed up. Grampa’s hug was sincere, just not quite as strenuous. We retired to the breakfast nook for one of Gramma’s wonderful pies, pecan, which I told her was a favorite of Paul’s. We had pie. We talked, chatting about the last few weeks where a few hundred miles had us separated. There’s no news, though. I talked with them several times every week.

We left after Gramma promised us a Cajun pot roast.

Next stop was the grocery store, then home. With the groceries put away, the sun was very low in the southwestern sky – not much light left, but enough to drag out the ATV for a run up the beach to catch the sunset.

Yes, it WAS romantic, the two of us in the cool December air watching the sun’s departure in a palette of oranges and reds. Solitude? We had the beach to ourselves down here. Two of the cabins had winter-lover vacationers, but they weren’t out like we are. Our little community looks like something out of one of those apocalyptic tales where humanity is almost extinct.

Now there’s a thought. I wonder what the market would be for a post-apocalyptic story from a teen? That was a conversation now between me and Paul. His input plastered onto my quirky excursion of thought gives me something to put into a rough proposal and a draft outline.