The Wind in the Willows

The Wind In The Willows

by Maria McShane

Detective Jax O'Riley huddled beneath the willow trees, protected from the mist and view when he saw her. The lone hooded figure approached the tombstone. She knelt before it and touched the granite-etched-name, tracing each letter, C A J U N  V E L V E T.

Something in how she held her right thumb, the same manner as the deceased used to after breaking hers long ago, jarred Jax into awareness. Cajun had returned from the dead to right the wrongs of the past.

"Damn you, Cajun," Jax breathed. "Damn you." 

He let out his breath and steadied himself. A myriad of emotions ran through him, but what surprised him most was that he was pissed. Seeing Cajun irked him because it brought the realization that the woman still held his heart and soul captive. He loved her with every bone in his body, the desire stronger now as if he'd only made love to her yesterday.

Jax took a step back, and a twig snapped. She turned in his direction. The hood still covered her face, but he knew her grey-blue eyes were scanning the area. His cop instinct told him that he hadn't been spotted or heard. But the non-cop Jax, the kid brutalized by his lowlife stepfather, edged into his psyche, telling him he'd been outed.

Jax counted to ten. She turned back to the grave.

They met when he'd been a uniform cop. He and his partner had been sent to the DeNoye mansion on a domestic violence call. Her husband, Marcus DeNoye, had gotten drunk and roughed Cajun up. But Marcus was a VIP. It wouldn't sit well with the mayor or Chief of Police if they brought him in handcuffed to sleep it off in jail.

Instead, after separating them, the solution was to have Cajun get checked out at the hospital and spend the night at a hotel. Jax never left her side. He'd fallen for her when he gazed into her tear-stained face, even with a black eye and swollen cheek. Her marriage had been in its death throes long before he came along.

A few years later, they were plotting their escape. It had taken months for her to get the nerve to leave Marcus.

"It’s not that he loves me,” Cajun explained. “Marcus is used to winning. Letting me go would equate to losing.”

She was leaving Marcus that night to meet Jax and start over. He remember the gut-punch feeling when a call came in on dispatch about a car fire on Rt. 202, a few miles away from the DeNoye mansion.  

Marcus had been satisfied with the explanation of his wife’s untimely death. The brakes had given out on her car, rolled down an embankment, and caught fire. Closed casket, enough mourners, and you’d think Cajun was famous in her own right, not just the wife of a ruthless, powerful man. Her grave rested in a prominent place, underneath a hill below the willows: Cajun Velvet, wife of the wealthiest man in the county, sixth generation of DeNoye Oil.

The county coroner, Myer Brewster, was Cajun’s uncle and had raised her. He confirmed Jax’s suspicion that Cajun wasn’t buried in the grave that bore her name. Myer remained tight-lipped on the details, only saying she was out of harm’s way and would contact him when it was safe.

“Visit on her birthday,” Myer said.

Each year, Jax came at dusk, leaving at sunset. Marcus had been buried in the plot beside Cajun’s grave after a drug overdose two years earlier. Jax expected to see her the following year, but she’d never materialized. Myer had retired and dropped out of sight; trying to reach him would be fruitless.

Jax watched the figure glance back to where he hid. She leaned forward and placed something white near the stone.

Jax stepped out into the clearing. Cajun turned and hurried away.  

“Cajun,” he bellowed, his cry echoed in the part of the cemetery where the town’s deceased elite rested.

She hastened out of sight, hidden by trees and monuments.

“Cajun,” he repeated, pounding after her. He ran hard, his chest heaving. The cigarettes hadn’t helped his ability to give chase. He reached the headstone, panting, and fell to his knees. Then he saw the white object she’d placed near the stone—an envelope with his name.

He tore it open

Meet me tonight. 9:00 pm. I can’t risk being seen. I’ll see you beneath the wind in the willows. C

She’d written the C with her flourish, as she always signed her notes.

He grasped the note, leaned forward, and breathed in. Her perfume, a floral scent. Distinct, and Cajun.

Jax crumpled the note, then unfolded and reread it. He shook his head and took great care to fold it and put it back in the envelope.

He ran his hand over his name. J A X, she’d written the X with curly-q’s on the end. She always did that.

“Doggone you, Cajun,” Jax whispered.

 Nine o’clock found Jax, a frantic son-of- a-bitch, pacing the hill near the grave. He’d parked outside the cemetery and walked in. Seven frickin’ years he’d done this. Paced and waited to see if she’d materialize. Today had been the day, and like that, she’d disappeared again.

By quarter past nine, he’d smoked three cigarettes. Cajun hadn’t been known for punctuality.

“C’mon, baby, where are you?” he said aloud.

He heard her before he saw her: footsteps, then the brush crunching.

“I’m here,” she whispered.

His heart stopped, then thump-thump, it started again, pounding in his ears.

“It’s you?” he asked.

A wind blew, parting the willows, revealing her. He closed the distance between them in a few quick paces. Wearing the same cloak as earlier, she dropped the hood. In the moonlight, no mistaking it, Cajun stood before him. Her dark hair was tied back, her face gaunt.

“It’s me, Jax,” she whispered. 

 “Yeah, it’s you,”  he said. “But why?”

“I found out Marcus rigged the car. He wanted me dead,” she said. “My uncle’s the one person who hated Marcus more than me. He helped stage the accident and let Marcus believe the body was burnt.”

“Why wait all this time to come back?” Jax ran a hand through his hair. “Did you play me, Cajun?”

“I couldn’t take a chance when Marcus was alive,” she said. “I didn’t want him to come after you.”

“He’s been dead two years,” Jax said in a deadpan tone. “Two more goddam years of the maniacal graveside vigil.”

“I had to be sure,” she said.

Jax reached for a cigarette. Before he could light it, Cajun grabbed it and broke it in half.

“You don’t need those anymore,” she said.

“How the hell do you know what I need?” Jax asked.

“I’ve always known you’re what I need, Jax,” she answered.

His name sounded perfect when she said it, as if a long-awaited homecoming was being announced. Seven years of sorrow and uncertainty hung in the air.

She raised her hand and touched his cheek. Her caress was feather soft. Jax grabbed her hand and kissed her palm.

“What about what I need?” he repeated.

“I’m what you need, Jax,” Cajun said. “I’m here now. We’ve got a second chance, the one Marcus tried to rob us of.”

Her voice broke. She held her hands by her side, palms out.

He clasped her hands in his. “We’re leaving tonight, Cajun. We’re going to make up for lost time.”

Jax pulled her tight, and she wrapped her arms around him.

“Too long,” she cried. “Time to start over.”

Jax kissed her, a soft kiss, then deeper. She tasted the same. The part of him that had been frozen began to thaw.  

Cajun choked back a sob and leaned her head against his shoulder.

He wrapped an arm around her waist and led her out of the cemetery. Moonlight lit the way, and the willows swayed with the wind.

Jax reached for the hand that had been broken so long ago and caressed her crooked finger.

 “Time’s what we have, baby.”