Under the Cajun Moon

M I N D Y  S T A R N S

          C L A R K

HARVEST HOUSE PUBLISHERS
EUGENE, OREGON

Scripture quotations are taken from the HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION
^®
. NIV
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. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by the International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved.

The author is represented by MacGregor Literary.

Cover by Dugan Design Group, Bloomington, Minnesota

Cover photos
©
Florea Marius Catalin / iStockphoto; VisionsofAmerica / Joe Sohm / Getty Images

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

UNDER THE CAJUN MOON
Copyright © 2009 by Mindy Starns Clark
Published by Harvest House Publishers
Eugene, Oregon 97402
www.harvesthousepublishers.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Clark, Mindy Starns.

Under the Cajun moon / Mindy Starns Clark.

   p. cm.

ISBN 978-0-7369-2624-9 (pbk.)

1. Cooks—Fiction. 2. Fathers and daughters—Fiction. 3. Cookery, Cajun—Fiction. 4. Cajuns—Fiction. 5. Louisiana—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3603.L366U63 2009

813’.6—dc22

2009019246

All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.

Printed in the United States of America

09  10  11  12  13  14  15  16  17  / DP-SK /  10  9  8  7  6  5  4  3  2  1

In loving memory of my father,
Robert M. Starns, M.D.
1929–2008

Louisiana born and bred, he passed along to me his joy in this land and its
waterways. An avid reader, he taught me the value of a tale well told.
To combine both for this story has been incredibly fulfilling.

And with love to my father-in-law,
John C. Clark Sr.
Though a Yankee through and through, your enthusiasm
for New Orleans makes you an honorary Southerner.
Thank you for your love and
support through the years!

Many, many thanks to:
John Clark, my loving husband, story shaper, and best friend
Emily and Lauren Clark, my incredibly sweet and helpful daughters
Kim Moore, paragon of patience and editor extraordinaire
Members of my online advisory group CONSENSUS
Everyone at Harvest House Publishers
Ned & Marie Scannell
Chip MacGregor
ChiLibris

Thanks also to:
My Cajun cousins, the Bourgs: Brett, Rhonda, Jesse,
Tabitha, Virginia, Katrina, Jared, and Joel, and Brett’s
parents, Druis and Catherine Bourg. Y’all rock!

Don Beard, Kirk Bachmann, Cajun Jack and Dawn of Cajun Swamp
Tours, Erin Compton Daniels, Jeff Gerke, John Heald, LUMCON, Marc
Preuss, Sisters in Crime, John Sonnier, Amy Starns, Andrew Starns, David
Starns, Jackie Starns, Sarah Starns, Mr. and Mrs. Elward Stephens, Erin
Sullivan, Chef George Thomas, Kimberly Walden, and Shari Weber

And last but not least:
Thanks to all who repeatedly lift me up in prayer,
especially my FVCN Small Group:
Brad, Brian, Chuck, Fanus, Mariette, Robin, Tracey, and Tracie

Ringing.

Something somewhere was ringing and just wouldn’t stop. Slowly, I opened my eyes. As I came more fully awake, I realized that the ringing was a telephone, and that the telephone was on a bedside table next to my head. Blinking, I looked around, trying to remember where I was.

Where was I?

The ringing persisted. I fumbled for the phone with one hand but the noise stopped before I could even lift the receiver. Licking dry, cracked lips, I let go of the phone and moved a hand to my forehead, feeling for a fever. My skin seemed cool, though I did have a splitting headache.

What was wrong with me?

More important, where was I and what was I doing here?

Carefully, I raised myself onto my elbows, my head throbbing with the effort. Looking around the dark room, it didn’t seem familiar. To my right, judging by a thin rectangle of light, was a window covered by heavy drapes. Was I in a hospital? There were no machines running nearby, no tubes coming from my body. Looking down, I could see that I was fully dressed. At least I recognized my own Theory suit, though the cream linen looked wrinkled in the dimness. Somehow, I had a feeling that I wasn’t in a hospital but rather a hotel.

Light. I needed light to figure this out. Ignoring the thousand pounds of mush inside my head, I sat all the way up. Making sure of my balance, I stood and stepped to the shades, pulling them open.

“Agh!” I cried, covering my eyes with a hand. The glare was blinding.

Fumbling frantically, I felt my way back to the bed and sat on the edge, my heart pounding. In all of my thirty-two years, I had never had anything like this happen to me, had never once woken up in a strange place without knowing how I had gotten there. After a few seconds I lowered the hand from my eyes and gingerly opened them again, thinking that if this was a hangover, I must have had one doozy of a night. Except that I didn’t get hangovers. I rarely even drank.

Looking around, I felt sure I was in a hotel room, though it wasn’t one I recognized. The decor was bland, if a little worn, and though there were no suitcases on the floor, my purse was sitting on the dresser. Standing again, I moved to it and looked inside, but nothing seemed amiss. My wallet was there, and a quick count of the cash it held assured me that no money was missing. Glancing around for some clue as to where I was, I spotted a small vinyl notebook imprinted with a fancy logo and the words “Maison Chartres.”

My own image in the mirror above the dresser caught my eye, and I paused to study it. I looked like me—or at least a disheveled, exhausted version of me. My long ash-blond hair was a tangled mess, my blue eyes bloodshot and tired.

Where was I and how had I gotten here?

Moving again toward the window, I placed my hands on the glass and looked out. I was on the first floor, and judging by the unique architecture outside, I was in New Orleans, the city of my youth. I wasn’t familiar with this particular hotel, but given the name it was probably on Chartres Street, in the French Quarter.

The French Quarter.

Vague memories of yesterday began edging their way into my brain. My mother’s phone call. My father’s injury. My frantic flight from Chicago to New Orleans.

From the airport, at my mother’s insistence, I had driven to our family
restaurant in the French Quarter to meet with my parents’ lawyer and handle some paperwork before going to the hospital to see my father. I remembered that much.

Suddenly, the phone on the bedside table began to ring again. This time, I leaped toward it and snatched it up quickly.

“Hello?”

“Yes, hello. This is the front desk,” a woman’s voice said. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I thought I should tell you that the police are on their way to your room. They’ve been very persistent. Apparently, someone else in the hotel called in a complaint about noise.”

“Noise? What noise?” The only noise I had heard was the ringing of the phone. I wanted to ask if the woman knew how I had gotten here, but before I could even form a coherent question in my mind, there was a pounding at the door. I quickly concluded the call and made my way toward the sound.