“My dad’s dead,” I whisper.
His smile fades. “I know.”
I think of Miss Perfection’s snide look and how she might have stolen TB away and the fear threatens to pull apart the seams of my existence. “And you may not love me anymore.”
Tears slide down my face and TB’s thumb wipes them away. “Never,” he whispers sternly. “That will never happen.”
I want to believe him, I really do, but I can’t help thinking I’ve pushed him away and now, when I know for sure I love this man, it’s too late.
“How about we get up and have some breakfast,” TB says. “Then we’ll talk.”
“Talk about Cookie?”
TB frowns. “Who?”
I sit up in bed and run a hand through my hair. I must look a mess. “The real estate agent you slept with.”
TB rises on the bed, resting on one elbow. “Denise?”
“Whatever.”
“She’s a friend.”
“Uh huh.”
“She’s staging our house.”
“She’s what?”
TB avoids my eyes and runs a finger along my mother’s ugly magenta quilt. My mother has this thing for paisley but this quilt monstrosity resembles amoebas on acid. “I’m thinking of selling the house.”
The tightness returns big time.
“It’s not what you think,” TB says when he notices my reaction. “It has to do with school.”
I’m totally confused and totally not convinced about Denise, but TB takes my hand and leads me from the bed and I follow. He gently places a robe about my shoulders — even though I’m still in my day clothes; it’s cold in the house, — tucks more hair behind my ears, and we head toward the kitchen where something delicious is cooking.
When I emerge into the sunlight, squinting away, my family spots me and jolts into action. First, my mother hugs me tightly, then Aunt Mimi, both commenting on how long I’ve slept and how worried they’ve been. Portia sends me a nod which is the most affectionate thing she can offer — we’re not the closest sisters — then comments on my bad breath. As weird as this sounds, her insult sends me love.
“Is Sebastian coming home?” I ask.
My mother is one of the world’s foremost Shakespearean experts and her children all received Bard names: Portia from The Merchant of Venice and my twin Sebastian and me from Twelfth Night. I adore the man I shared a womb with but since Katrina Sebastian’s achieved semi-fame as a chef and has been traveling the world. I rarely see the brat.
“He’s in Hawaii taping a TV show.” It’s clear from her tone that my mother doesn’t approve. “We’ll have your dad’s memorial after Thanksgiving when he can come home.”
“Gives us time to do our road trip,” Portia mutters between searching for something on her laptop.
“What road trip?” I ask.
Mom places a heaping plate of Bruce’s sweet potato pancakes in front of me, while Mimi pushes the butter and syrup my way. The local brand of pancake mix is my favorite but my mom usually serves me something less caloric because she thinks my food and travel writing profession is making me fat. Which it probably is.
If only I were hungry.
“Eat,” Mimi barks at me, so I pick up my fork and attempt a bite.
“I see two tickets to McAllen for tonight,” Portia says, then looks at Mimi. “What do you think?”
“What road trip?” I mutter between swallows.
“Nothing you need to worry about,” my mom adds.
I look at TB and he shrugs, so I give Mimi a glare that if she doesn’t answer soon I will stop eating and head back to bed. It works.
“There are things about your father’s death I haven’t told you,” she begins.
My mother drops the spatula in her pan loudly, places her hands on her hips and turns toward her sister, sending Mimi her own stern glare.
“She has a right to know,” Mimi insists.
“Know what?” I ask.
No one says a word, glancing at each other as if not sure how to proceed.
“They think your father was murdered,” TB whispers.
I send TB a grateful smile, then look at the three women around me. “Is this true?”
Mimi sighs. “He had blunt trauma to the back of the head. The coroner pretty much ruled out accidental death and said it’s most likely that he was hit from behind with the butt of a shotgun.”
“They don’t know for sure,” my mom inserts, giving me an encouraging look.
“They found fragments that match a recall pad.”
“A recall pad?” TB asks.
“It’s the heel of the gun,” Portia says. “How does a Cajun not know the parts of a gun?”
“I grew up in New Orleans,” TB says defensively. “Not all Cajuns hunt.”
“Obviously.”
“I have good teeth, Portia, and I wear shoes, too.”
Chalk one up for my husband. Usually my intellectual family throws barbs his way and TB either doesn’t understand them or simply ignores the insults.
“Your Cajun uncle hunts,” my mother says to TB. “He’s always bringing us ducks for our gumbo.”
I hold up my hands. “Can we please get back to dad’s murder and this road trip y’all are going on?”
Everyone stops talking, waiting for someone to breach the news but it’s so quiet I swear I can hear Stinky cleaning his paw across the room.
Finally, Portia sighs. “We have a paper trail of where Dad was all this time, based on his credit card usage and a few phone calls.”
“After the divorce, we dissolved the joint checking account,” my mom adds. “But we forgot about the credit card.”
“So, you’ve known where he’s been all this time?” I ask her.
My mother sighs heavily. “There is more to your father than you realize.”
“Obviously.” I can’t believe this. All this time and my mother knew?
“Let’s get into that later,” Mimi says. “Right now, we need to figure out our trip.”
“Mimi and I are going to fly into McAllen, Texas, the first place Dad visited as far as we know,” Portia explains. “Then rent a car and drive back to Louisiana, following his footsteps.”
My adrenaline rises at this plan of action. I feel fired up for the first time in days. “I’m coming with you.”
Mom points her spatula at me. “No, you’re not.”
“Of course, I am.”
TB takes my hand as my blood pressure rises. “Vi, you need to rest and get better.”
I shake my head. “No way. I’m going.”
“You’ve been sleeping for two days!” Now, my mother’s blood pressure is heading toward the roof.
I look at Mimi with pleading eyes. “You have to bring me,” I whisper. “I’m channeling him.”
“You’re what?” Portia asks.
TB squeezes my hand and I look his way. “I’ll come with her,” he tells the group.
Portia closes her laptop a bit too hard and the noise startles us all. “Why don’t we ask the mayor of New Orleans to come along, too?”
“Why would the mayor need to come?” TB asks.
This is what I mean about my husband being simple-minded. Or slow. Or clueless. Whatever the label, he’s always taking the butt of a crowd’s shotgun because he’s not as hip, quick, intelligent (fill in the blank) enough. It’s been one of the things that drove me crazy but right now, I think he’s adorable.
“She needs to rest,” my mother tells TB.
We all start arguing, me insisting I’m fine despite my horrid appearance and the depression that sent me to bed for days, my mother claiming otherwise, and Portia demanding that they could work faster and more efficient with less people. Mimi remains quiet, gazing at me, no doubt wondering what my father has been telling me from the great beyond.
Finally, TB stands and bring the chaos to order. Everyone stops talking and stares because it’s unlike my placid husband to make such demands.
�
��I’ll pay for Vi’s ticket and my own. I can get off work and school’s slow right now because of mid-terms so it’s cool. She’ll be fine as long as she’s with me.”
Portia shakes her head. “No offense, TB, but you’re the last person to protect anyone.”
A laughter snort comes out of my nose. “You gotta be kidding me.”
TB blushes, Mimi sends me a warning glance to keep quiet about my husband’s angelic ways, and my mom stands there clueless. Portia senses we’re hiding something but throws her hands up in defeat. “Whatever. Plane leaves at five.”
“Great,” TB says, looking like he’s eager to get out of here. “I’m heading to my house to pack a bag.”
Stinky stops cleaning his privates and rises, looking straight at me.
“Pick up a cat carrier,” I yell to TB’s wake. “We’ll need one for the plane.”
Portia’s mouth drops open. “We’re bringing the cat, too?”
I think to expound how useful Stinky has been to TB and me, but a psychic cat is as easy to explain as being a SCANC. Thankfully, Mimi comes to the rescue.
“Just, roll with it, dear,” she tells Portia, patting her hand.
While Portia makes the reservations online, fussing the entire time, I head to the bedroom to shower and pack my own clothes. Someone, likely my mom, has removed my dirty wardrobe from the car and cleaned it all. It lies stacked neatly on the dresser.
There’s a riff in the light and I look up to find my mom in the doorway.
“Are you sure you want to do this,” she asks.
An intense shiver runs through me, like a skunk crawling over a grave, as Aunt Mimi loves to say.
“What aren’t you telling me?” I ask her.
She shakes her head, her brow furrowed, then sighs. “Your dad was not a perfect man. I suspect you’re not going to like what you find.”
Chapter Four
The pilot announces our descent into McAllen, Texas, a town at the end of the world, as the Texan next to me describes it. McAllen lies at the southern-most point of the triangular state, almost the lowest point of the country. If it wasn’t for the Florida Keys hanging down, this town across the Rio Grande from Reynosa, Mexico, might have nabbed that geographical distinction.
Getting the four of us to the New Orleans airport, checking bags, heading through security and even finding the connecting flight in Houston was a continuous nightmare. I realize that being a travel writer I’m well oiled in these kinds of things but Portia and Mimi acted like toddlers headed to school for the first time. Portia took ten minutes filling out a baggage tag and then insisted on purchasing additional baggage insurance, which took another ten minutes.
“They only insure your bags for a measly amount,” Portia said when we all groaned. “My bag alone is worth what they offer.”
Mimi then asked to visit the bathroom before security and when she resurfaced couldn’t find her boarding pass. Portia and I spent a good ten minutes there searching through stalls and trash cans before Mimi discovered it was in her purse the whole time.
When we finally made it to the gate, Portia had argued with security that her perfume slightly over the four-ounce limit was too expensive to dispose of, Mimi stopped for chewing gum and another bathroom break, Portia’s handle on her carryon broke and chaos ensued, and our plane ended up being forty minutes late which made both women tense and complaining even though we had a two-hour layover in Houston.
I would get ready to jump in and calm things — or better yet, tell them both to shut up — when TB would take my hand and squeeze.
“Better to leave it alone,” he whispered.
TB’s reading the airline magazine as we descend, calm as a cucumber. Now that I think about it, who came up with that silly saying? Of course, a cucumber is calm.
He glances my way. “What are you thinking about so hard?”
“How Stinky has been the easiest traveler on this trip.”
We look down to the cat carrier beneath the seat in front of me and Stinky’s out cold.
“Best cat ever,” TB says with a smile.
He’s about to go back to reading about Janet Jackson, but once we land we’ll be four crazy people again so I blurt out, “Why do you want to sell the house?”
It’s clear by his reaction that this won’t be an easy subject. He grimaces and closes the magazine, slips it back into the seat sleeve.
“If I keep going to LSU, which I’m not sure I will, it’ll take me years at this rate to graduate. With work and the commute to Baton Rouge, I can only take one class a semester.”
This isn’t what I’m expecting. When I got pregnant in college, I graduated in May and had Lillye the following January. TB enjoyed partying more than his studies so when he left college to marry me he was short hours needed to graduate. Last year, he decided to return to school. He’s been keeping this all a secret; I only found out last week. Since he’s not the sharpest tool in the shed and most people tell him as such, he’s self-conscious about obtaining his bachelor’s in general studies. Plus, he’s making good money in his family’s construction business so they’re not supportive of the idea.
“If it’s important to you, you need to finish your degree,” I tell him.
TB shrugs. “Is it? What am I going to do with a general studies degree?”
“That’s your family talking.”
“They may have a point.”
I think back on my Ph.D. parents and I repeat what they always told us: “An education is something you purchase that will last you your whole life. It’s the most important thing you can spend time and money on.”
He looks at me with gratitude and I sense that obtaining this degree means a lot.
“What has this to do with the house?” I ask.
Oh please, don’t let it mean he’s moving in with Cookie. I can’t help but wonder if she has an office in Baton Rouge.
“I told my library science professor about how long it was going to take me to graduate at LSU and he told me about his alma mater in Tennessee.”
“Library science?”
TB shrugs again. “I like research.”
Of course. The man has been instrumental in helping me solve my ghostly mysteries, rummaging through libraries, digging through public documents, and searching the Internet like a teenager. It’s a perfect fit. But I understand why he’s reluctant. His whole family’s in construction so they must think his new studies a waste of time, not to mention it’s not the most manly of subjects; they’re a bit macho as well.
“I talked to someone at Smoky Mountains University and they think I can graduate in a summer and one full semester if I go full time. That means I’d have a degree by August of next year.”
My breath catches. “You’re moving to Tennessee with Cookie?”
He looks at me as if I’ve lost my mind. “She’s just a friend.”
“Friend with cookies,” I add with a laughter snort. Gee, when did the snorting thing happen?
But TB’s not laughing. “I thought maybe I could fix up the house and sell it, use my half of the money for tuition and living expenses.”
I sober up. “But Tennessee?”
The plane wheels descend and we feel them lock into place while the pilot announces we have arrived.
“It’s a stupid idea,” TB whispers, and it’s then I realize that my husband needs to escape that house as much as I once did. Too many memories. Not to mention that New Orleans isn’t the easiest place to live three years past Katrina. But Tennessee? How will I live without him? Unless….
I take his hand. “It’s an excellent idea if that’s what you want. You know I don’t care if you sell the house or not. But you will come back, won’t you?”
Those deep brown eyes shine with gratitude that I have his back, that I know what it’s like to follow a dream. Then they dim and he frowns.
“They have a great master’s program in library science. Do you think it’s crazy that…?”
We land with a
thud and the pilot puts on the brakes and we all lean forward until the plane comes to a complete stop. The flight attendants demand we keep our seatbelts on but I hear clicking throughout the cabin along with a symphony of cell phones turning on. Portia leans across the aisle and starts asking questions about the rental car — where is the kiosk, do we have to take a shuttle to the car, are you sure we can drop it off in New Orleans?
I look back at TB and roll my eyes.
“We can talk about this later,” he says, but I don’t let go of his hand until it’s time to stand and disembark the plane.
We manage to retrieve the rental van — a large vehicle with enough room for four adults, several suitcases and a cat — and head to what Mimi insists is a new style of lodging. For far less money than the cost of two hotel rooms, she’s booked an entire house with kitchen and a pool.
“It’s called Airbnb and it’s like a regular B&B but less expensive and no breakfast,” she tells us. “Plus, you get a lot more room for your buck.”
We pull up to a lovely Spanish-style house surrounded by desert-type landscaping, a pasture with some animals lurking in the dark and making creepy noises, and little else. There’s a convenience store down the road, but we’re fairly isolated out here.
“Are you sure this is legit?” Portia asks.
We’re all likely thinking the same thing but when the owner arrives with the key and happily shows us our new home, our trepidations fall away. The expansive living room includes a large-screen TV and walls of books and leads into a kitchen my twin the chef would adore. The three bedrooms offer private baths and large comfy beds, which means I won’t have to endure Portia’s snoring. Alberto Rodriguez shows us the back yard that he claims has the finest sunset in all of McAllen, plus instructs us on how to turn on the hot tub. Hot damn, I think, knowing what part of this house I’m enjoying first.
“And there’s a kitty litter box in the hallway bathroom,” he says, noticing the cat carrier. I glance over at Aunt Mimi and she smiles. Never underestimate a hippy for details that matter.
After Mr. Rodriguez leaves, we let Stinky out of his carrier and the women get comfortable in their rooms. While our cat baby sniffs every corner of this house and I bring my toiletries to the bathroom, TB merely throws his suitcase on the chair of the room we’re sharing and is done.
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