Dr. Bulma Brief strolled out of the Hart Senate Office Building carrying her smart black Saint Laurent briefcase – made of grained leather, of course. She avoided looking smug but her client had made a strong case, charming what had been an irritable group of senators presiding over an important hearing. The late afternoon sun cast a stunning orange-and-yellow gleam over the U.S. Capitol as she considered walking to her brownstone home in the brisk fall air, or visiting a neighborhood wine bar.
Newcomers moving into the area had crowned it "ritzy." Some were more snobbish than Bulma expected, having lived in the area for more than a decade. Now forty-seven years old, she had long shed excitement over seeing idealistic young interns and cynical old politicos on Capitol Hill. That said, many residents weren't venomous snakes either. Families with rich, vibrant histories had lived there for generations. None considered their home a "swamp," a disrespectful nickname from ignorant outsiders with their heads up their asses.
But Bulma had become a lobbyist, a class of professionals either respected or reviled, depending on whom they represented. In Bulma's case, a chemical manufacturing company used her expertise to win support for legislation favoring its interests. She got paid well, too, like most others representing big businesses.
She completed her doctorate at twenty-four as a chemist. Back then, she was considered a rising star, with top universities asking her to join their faculties. One professor convinced himself that she would win the Nobel Prize under his tutelage. However long that would take, Bulma didn't know. She really hadn't set that goal for herself anyway. Her father, also a chemist, took a hands-off approach to her doubts. Dr. Nathan Brief was a laid-back, friendly man who appreciated a simpler existence. He wanted Bulma to be happy, wherever her interests guided her.
Despite her high-flying lifestyle, Bulma would never deny her humble Kansas upbringing. Still, she made uneasy compromises with morals her parents taught. Her client, Dowdie Chemical Corporation, had to repair its public image after manufacturing plants in southern states failed over more than a decade to dispose wastewater properly. Hoping to avoid a pollution disaster, brave front-line workers sought help from the Stewards, an environmentalist group. They got more than they bargained for.
Dr. Vegeta Chennault, the Stewards executive director in Washington, was a bare-knuckled fighter for the cause. His organization brought the first lawsuits against Dowdie for its negligence five years earlier, forcing corrupt executives who hid problems to admit wrongdoing. Some went to jail. Now, Dowdie said it couldn't reverse the damage quickly unless the government relaxed regulations for years.
"Fucking liars," Vegeta said on national television. "If Dowdie can pay a toilet full of shitty lobbyists, then it can spend enough to fix the damage its overpaid managers willfully ignored. The company's high stock price and the CEO's $23 million in pay tells me their side is doing just fine."
One of those "shitty" lobbyists happened to be a smart, well-spoken woman walking past. Vegeta's mocking eyebrow arched as their eyes set like concrete. Bulma crossed her arms, daring him to speak directly, until her iPhone rang. She had to postpone their gladiator battle, but she would reclaim her honor. Vegeta winked, throwing down the gauntlet for the rematch.
Usually Bulma ignored such nonsense, but Vegeta had mastered the art of distraction. His Cajun cheekiness and sharp intellect captured the room when he testified. With aplomb, he approached the edges of verbal contempt without crossing the line into disrespect when senators asked rude and blatantly stupid questions. Transfixed, Bulma sat behind Dowdie representatives quietly.
Her office had opposition research on him and Stewards' offices throughout the U.S. Eventually, one of her partners would suggest using it. Negative campaigns could sow public doubt about honest people as much as dishonest ones. Bulma, however, believed her clients could win on their case's merit. She hoped to steer clear of scorched-earth attack. Vegeta wasn't going away, but they had won this round.
Vegeta laughed darkly at the amused news reporters before leaving the Senate building. He also dismissed his worried retinue of volunteers, telling them to focus on the work. He took care of himself.
"Disparaître!" he snapped. When the native Louisianan said "disappear," he damned well meant it. He swore that Washington's fifty-degree October weather felt like the Antarctic. His discomfort blinded flirtations from women and men strolling by. He wasn't the tallest person, but he was striking. Dark eyes, supple lips, manicured goatee, and a muscular physique were the cake. His thick black mane, bearing a silver streak across one side, was the icing.
He didn't don a standard men's suit at the Senate hearing. Instead, he testified wearing a crème-colored turtleneck shirt, brown tweed jacket, and a grey, multi-dot scarf. Jeans and brown, brushed-leather shoes were fine accents. Dressing like this didn't come naturally. At home he preferred denim overalls and moccasins. Underwear was optional. Declan, his Irish brother-in-law with more money than Satan, said attractive men should dress accordingly, based on their surroundings. Vegeta had his pride, but both men found it entertaining that Declan spent like a gambler to dress him.
They also grieved together. Emaline, Vegeta's twin sister, died of breast cancer two years earlier, devastating their entire family and many friends. Her demeanor was less rough than her two brothers, but she was just as intense and loyal. She eventually moved to Washington with her husband to be closer to Vegeta. Before dying, she asked Declan to stick by her ornery sibling. He agreed without hesitation.
"It may not seem like it, but Vegeta is the most sensitive one in our brood," she told him. "He pushes others away when he believes he's failed. He couldn't fix what happened to our precious père, though nothing was his fault. He cannot... fix what's happening to me now. Remind him with a loving heart, cher."
Declan offered many gifts. He convinced Vegeta to visit New Orleans on the anniversary of Emaline's burial, where they ate and drank like starved warriors. Declan almost started a couple of bar fights, as well, which his brother-in-law got them out of before being jailed - or killed.
Furious, Vegeta cursed in three languages at the man, including Gaelic. He had been to jail before, after a bar brawl while in college. Once was enough, especially in Louisiana.
"Difficult roads can lead to beautiful destinations," Declan said through pained blue eyes. "Now buy another stout. I feel like singing some melodies."
ooooXXXoooo
Vegeta had enough for the day – every day for the past year, actually. Dowdie Chemical wasn't his only fight. He believed in his work, but the emotional weight had become heavier. He had withdrawn further inside of himself. Being an introvert – a crabby one, he admitted – had not stopped him from spending time with friends and family who genuinely cared. Everyone noticed his avoidance now, growing more concerned about their "mean old swamp creature." Vegeta's temperament earned the sobriquet, but men like him also valued honor and duty. Washington teemed with people far less honest, and the good ones wanted to help in spite of Dr. Chennault's cantankerousness.
The Chennault family had more than its fair share of pain after their patriarch died. Then and now, his wife and children considered "Big Vegeta" a king among men. He was an old-school, acid-tongued southerner from Lafayette, Louisiana, who fought like holy hell to become a lawyer after being born poor. He never forgot his roots, dedicating his life to getting modest, hard-working people paid what they deserved for their labor. His offspring didn't grow up poor, but they were far from wealthy.
Young Vegeta, whose family nicknamed him "Prince Chennault," and Emaline had been intellectually gifted kids, and their father pushed them hard. At times, he took them on business trips to understand their good fortune. The maternal grandfather, Remy, schooled them in natural riches of the Louisiana Bayou Country, traveling by canoe through the tree-lined waterways. The proud, warm man returned with his grandchildren to spread their beloved father's ashes into the brackish water.
Big Vegeta died in a suspicious car accident while investigating a case. He made enough enemies in high places that Lafayette's citizens hardly were surprised, but they embraced the family. Before he died, the older Chennault said he "discovered something big." Vegeta took his father's death the hardest, but grief didn't stop him. He trained as an environmental scientist, dedicating himself to helping the natural world and humans co-exist. Louisiana always would be his inspiration – as well as his father.
He tried ignoring his birthday. He was now the same age as Big Vegeta before the family lost him. Declan and Barnabé, Vegeta's younger brother, expected a rough day for him. Then they saw news about the Senate hearing. Vegeta may not have wanted support, but they believed he needed it anyway - and they knew exactly where he would be.
More than one-thousand miles west in Leavenworth, Kansas, Bunny Brief wiped her hands clean while listening to her daughter on speakerphone.
"I just love your new haircut in those Instagram pictures, Bulma. Letting your hair grow longer on the right side fits perfectly."
"Thanks, mother."
"When are you coming home, dear?
"Not sure yet," Bulma said uncomfortably. "Maybe Thanksgiving or Christmas. I'm working a lot these days, you know."
Bunny sighed. "I'm sure you are. Take time to judge its importance – beyond money."
Bulma grinned and said, "But I like driving my Mercedes-Benz. You do too." Her father, who was smoking a pipe on the front porch, snorted and laughed.
"Stop that racket right now, Nathan, before I throw you from that chair!" Bunny screeched. After huffing a bit, she sweetly replied to Bulma, "Well, yes, but we aren't discussing me, young lady. I love you, darling, with all of my heart - all of it. Whatever weighs down your spirit won't win."
Bulma felt tears welling. "I love you, mommy, very much. Give daddy a kiss for me. Bye."
"I always do, honey," Bunny said, laughing. "I like kissing him for myself, too."
"She certainly does!" Nathan shouted. "Bye, gorgeous!"
Thank god I didn't wear heels today. Bulma's stomach growled as soon as their call ended. The wine bar was off the table now. A true meal was in order tonight – with lots of meat. She deserved this.
Bulma's next door neighbors constantly raved about a restaurant called Fleur-de-Lis. The restaurant had been open for almost three years, with good reviews from magazine food critics and the Washington Post. She stopped home to reapply makeup, have a glass a wine, and leave her briefcase, exchanging it for a small purse. After locking up, she pulled her wool coat closer to begin her stroll through six blocks of tree-lined sidewalks. She almost walked past the place until an antique gas lamp flickered over the door. A stained glass plate bore a colorful flag adorned with blue, red, and white panels. Three silver fleur-de-lis were on the blue panel, a gold castle on red, and a gold star on the white.
Bulma never had seen the flag of Acadiana - the Cajun flag- before.
Vegeta felt skeptical when Declan said a "Louisiana-style" restaurant had opened on Capitol Hill. "What the hell does style mean?" he complained. "Either it's my kind of food or not! Quoi d'autre?"
Two years and ten pounds later, Fleur-de-Lis had become Prince Chennault's gastronomic and personal refuge. The owner and head chef, Fabien Bertrand, grew up in Eunice, Louisiana, about forty miles from Lafayette. Hosting his "frère" was an honor, no matter how early or late.
When Declan wasn't around, Vegeta didn't socialize much with other diners. Usually he sat in a corner to eat and work. After Emaline died, Fabien joined him occasionally. On this evening, though, Vegeta sat at the bar while patrons sought table seating. Most weren't interested in making merry on a Tuesday.
Fabien left the kitchen to greet him. "Trouble, mon frère?"
"Non." Vegeta shook his head. "Je voudrais un verre de vin rouge."
The chef's giant mouth bent into crooked smile. "You have not asked for anything this formally – or this formal - since we met, Dr. Chennault. Are you feeling all right? What's up the clothes? You look like you just stepped out of a Sherlock Holmes episode."
Vegeta scowled. "The wine. Now."
Fabien placed a tumbler glass in front. "Not yet. I have a better idea. How is your throat?
"Why?"
Fabien rolled his eyes. "Because you sound hoarse, Vegeta, which you know already. You're also rubbing your throat. A brandy sidecar should help with that - or maybe a hot toddy after souper."
"Fabien, the last thing I need is one of your heavy alcoholic drinks. I'll be knocked out cold through next week."
"At least you won't have a cold, hmm? Oh, before I forget, bonne fête à toi."
Vegeta looked up. "I never told you about my birthday. Did Declan say something?"
"Non," Fabien said, waving him off. "Doesn't matter. I've said it. Now drink your wine. I'll bring out boudin balls and étouffée shortly."
"No birthday cake, bread pudding or pralines," Vegeta grumbled. "Can you restrain yourself?"
"Of course."
Vegeta hated being called out. True, he wasn't feeling well. He couldn't put on a show anymore. That part of the day was over. He pushed the wine glass aside, propping an elbow on the bar and hand underneath his chin.
"Looks like you've had a long day," a woman's voice said softly.
Vegeta turned around and glared. Damn. It's about to get longer.
Hello! Thank you for taking time to read. Please take a moment to leave a comment or PM me. I always like hearing from you. (The entire story is finished. I hope you enjoy the following chapters.)
