Sandra Hill - [Jinx] by Pearl Jinx Page B

know.”
    “Yes, I—”
    “I kin hear the thunderbolts already.” Tante Lulu slapped her leg with glee.
    Here it comes.
    “The thunderbolts of love.”
    Caleb groaned.
    Claire giggled, after her gaping mouth clicked shut.
    Then the old lady pulled the zinger on him. “Ya gots yer hope chest yet, boy? No? Well, best ya skedaddle, ’cause the thunderbolt doan wait fer nothin’.”
    Hail, hail, the gang’s all here . . .
    Claire looked around the library of the B & B and wondered just what kind of motley crew she would be working with the next few weeks. A low hum of conversation buzzed as individuals, each more unique than the next, talked to each other in low tones.
    Abbie and Tante Lulu—already recipe-exchanging best buds—were off in the kitchen, cleaning up from the sumptuous dinner of lemon-fried trout, baked potatoes, salad, fresh corn on the cob, and sweet beignets direct from Louisiana. And planning some mischief, if their sly old eyes were any indication. Actually, they were planning to drive over to one of the farmers’ stands near Tyrone in hopes of finding some fresh okra so that Tante Lulu could make gumbo. She was bound and determined to fatten up Mark, who kept protesting, to no avail, that he wasn’t eating that slimy vegetable, no way, no how. Tante Lulu’s response had been to whack him on the shoulder with her wooden spoon and say, “Wanna bet?”
    Tante Lulu had brought with her a suitcase full of St. Jude statues of various sizes, which she handed out to everyone. St. Jude—her favorite of all the saints, she told them—was the patron saint of hopeless causes. Thinking about the baby she would like to have someday, Claire took two.
    The meeting was about to begin.
    Veronica Jinkowsky, or Ronnie as she asked to be called, was the owner of Jinx, Inc. Slim, about the same age as Claire, Ronnie stood with her hands in the pockets of her cream-colored, pleated slacks, talking animatedly to Caleb. The slacks, along with a jungle-print silk blouse and low-heeled sandals, were probably designer; Claire wasn’t up on that kind of thing.
    Her partner, Jake Jensen, an internationally known poker player, wore faded jeans, a T-shirt that said “Ace Kicker!,” and a Jinx, Inc., baseball cap over his short black hair. He sat slouched in a chair at the back of the room talking with Mark, who also slouched. Jake’s dark complexion was a sharp contrast to Mark’s sickbed pallor, but both men were very attractive. Even as he talked to Mark, Jake watched Ronnie like a hawk. Jake was obviously leery of Caleb, though he had no reason to be. The lovebirds—albeit four-times-divorced lovebirds and not married at the present time—had eyes only for each other.
    Adam Famosa, the college prof, and John LeDeux, the Cajun rascal, sat at the library table studying maps. Some of the layouts of the cavern were a hundred years old, but some were only a few days old, prepared by Caleb. Adam and John were attractive guys, too, not that Claire was interested, despite the perusals she got from both of them.
    Nope, none of them compared to the Amish Navy SEAL treasure hunter, in Claire’s opinion. At the ripe old age of thirty-five, she was developing an embarrassing crush on a man who was so much her polar opposite they could be an eskimo and a hula dancer.
    Caleb glanced her way, then did a double take on noticing her scrutiny. His eyes quickly took in her sleeveless green shirtwaist dress, a shade darker than her pale green eyes, and upswept hair. The dress was professional and not at all sexy, except in Caleb’s eyes, she could tell. He turned back to Ronnie, but a flush crept up the back of his neck and even colored his ears. Claire was enjoying his discomfort. Nice to know she could still rattle a man’s chain.
    “Hey, everyone,” Ronnie said.
    The room went silent.
    “Jake and I wanted to stop by to launch this project. We’ll be on our way tomorrow to another contract in Mexico, where Brenda is already