by Sandra Hill
He shook his head. “There better not be a problem.”
Once he left and she cautioned the Duval kids to stay put for a little bit, she rushed over to Tante Lulu’s cottage. The old lady, who was washing dishes, looked up at her with surprise.
“Gracie? Whass the matter, honey?” She was already wiping the soap suds off her hands with a dish towel.
Grace plopped down into a kitchen chair, cradled her face in her trembling hands, and began to bawl, loud and long. Finally, when her crying bout was over, she looked up at Tante Lulu, whose wrinkled face was even more wrinkled with concern.
“It’s about my daughter.”
The cure for everything is tea...and St. Jude...
Tante Lulu put a cup of tea and its saucer on the table in front of Grace and sat down beside her. The poor girl had just told her the most amazing story between sobs and hiccoughs and sighs of regret. Bad parents. A lost child. A slimy blackmailer.
Where to start unraveling this mess? Tante Lulu smiled to herself. Unraveling was what she did best.
“Drink up, honey. It’s my special blend fer soothin’ the nerves. Then we’ll talk.”
Grace took a long drink, then placed the cup carefully on the table, tracing the rim with a forefinger, deep in thought.
The cup and saucer, one of a set of six, had been hand painted many, many years ago by her almost mother-in-law Betty Prudhomme. Betty had been color-blind and not much of an artist, bless her heart, so the roses looked more like tulips and the leaves were more purplish than green, but Tante Lulu loved them just the same.
“What should I do?” Grace asked.
“What do ya wanna do?”
“See my daughter. Reconnect in some way, if I can. I don’t really know.”
“That goes without sayin’, sweetie, but first ya gotta decide what ta do ’bout this George fella.”
Grace nodded. “Maybe I should just give him the money, on the condition he sets up a meeting with my daughter...if she’s willing.”
“No, no, no! Givin’ in ta bad people is lak pouring water in a leaky bucket. Doan think fer one second that this worm won’t keep comin’ back fer more.”
“I won’t have any more to give him.”
“That won’t matter none.” She scrutinized Grace for a few seconds. Wasn’t hard to miss the whisker burns and kiss-swollen lips, and neither of them was caused by crying, either. “I notice ya hooked up with Angel las’ night.”
Grace blushed. You had to love a spinster gal who could still blush, and in Tante Lulu’s book a thirty-five-year-old gal who’d never gotten married was a spinster. Not that that couldn’t be corrected—the unmarried bizness—and it for darn sure was on Tante Lulu’s agenda.
“Why not tell Angel about this shyster’s threats and let him help you?”
Grace was horrified. “No! I wouldn’t want him to know—no! It’s better that he doesn’t know about my...past.”
“Sweetie, let’s get one thing straight. People make mistakes, we all do, but there’s a shelf life on penance. Ya cain’t let yer mistakes rule yer whole life, and thass what ya been doin’. Fer goodness’ sake, ya were only sixteen when ya had a baby. Do I think ya shoulda kept the little one and raised it yerself? Well, yes, I do, but it ’pears as if ya had no one ta turn to fer help back then. Now ya do.”
“But I should have known better. I had an abortion the year before. Wouldn’t you think I’d have the sense to at least use birth control after that?”
“Sweetie, why are ya beatin’ yerself up over things that cain’t be erased? The question is what ta do now?”
“Not Angel!”
Tante Lulu narrowed her eyes at her. “Thass why ya broke the boy’s heart, ain’t it? Ya got this fool notion that ya gotta be punished fer yer sins. Let me tell ya, girlie. God doan like humans goin’ inta the punishin’ bizness. If there’s any punishin’ ta do, it’s up ta him and no one else. And—no, doan interrupt me—there’s another thing. God forgave ya a long time ago. Doan ya think it’s ’bout time ya forgave yerself?”
Grace burst out into a whole new set of bawling. Lordy, Lordy, who knew one body could hold so much water? When she was finished, and had gone through three more tissues, Tante Lulu suggested, “How ’bout talkin’ with Tee-John? He’s a cop. He could handle this lowlife, guaranteed.”
“No! There’s too much I need to know yet before I can contact Andrea. Him being in jail, at least at this point, would only be setting up walls. Not that I want to pay him any money. I’d rather use it to pay for her college education.”
“Luc, then. He’s a lawyer. He would know what ya should do.”
Grace nodded.
Tante Lulu took her hand and bowed her head. “Dear St. Jude, please help Grace. She ain’t hopeless, but ya allus was the best saint fer those in despair. And dear God, please be with Grace in her time of need. Amen.”
“Thank you,” Grace choked out, squeezing her hand.
“About this Andrea gal,” Tante Lulu said then. “I wonder if she has a hope chest.”
Chapter 14
As the world turns in Loo-zee-anna...and turns...and turns...
Everyone was behaving really weird.
As Angel worked to finish all the little projects on the Duval house that week, he got help from many of the LeDeux men, each of whom gave him funny looks—and more unwanted advice than Dr. Phil. Was it because he had nailed Grace? Nah! They had all done enough nailing in their time to be licensed sex carpenters. They could hardly be judging him. Besides, it had been a willing event.
Event? I’m losing my mind here.
Finally, the last straw came with John LeDeux, who kept giving him odd glances while they were putting up crown molding in the kitchen.
He growled, “What?”
“Nothin’.”
“Don’t tell me frickin’ nothin’. It sure as hell is somethin’.”
“Not for me to say.”
“Who, then?”
John refused to meet his gaze.
“Grace?”
John shrugged.
“Is something wrong with Grace?” Holy crap! She couldn’t be pregnant, could she? Noooo! Even if he hadn’t used protection, it would be too soon to know. “Is she sick?”
“Nope.”
“In some kind of danger?”
“Ooops, I just remembered I’m on duty tonight.”
“When it comes to artful dodges, that one stinks.”
“I have to be in Baton Rouge for a stakeout.”
“How’d you like to have a stake up your sorry ass?”
“Tsk, tsk, tsk! Tante Lulu doesn’t like potty mouths, cher.”
“Tante Lulu isn’t here. And I’m not your dumbass cher.”
“Chill out, Sabato.”
“You are pissin’ me off.”
“Listen up, birdbrain, Grace only told Tante Lulu and Luc. She doesn’t want anyone else to know about...well, stuff. I only know because I overheard them talking. And Remy only knows because Tante Lulu wanted to buy a gun. And René...well, René could always worm anything out of Tante Lulu. So, really, it’s only Tante Lulu and Luc who know.”
“What a crock! Whoa! Did you say something about a gun? That’s it. I’m outta here.” He laid down his hammer and headed toward the door.
“Where you goin’, cher?”
“To Grace’s cottage. She’ll tell me what’s goin’ on, or...or else.”
“She’s not at home.”
Angel turned slowly, inch by inch, to glare at the dickhead who was grinning at him. “Oh?”
“She’s at the Lafayette Hotel in Houma.”
“Alone?”
He shook his head.
“She has a lover?”
“Oh, puhleeze! After boinking away with you for seven straight hours, I hardly think she’s gonna be lookin’ for more action.”
Does everyone know my business? I need to get out of Louisiana before I go totally nuts. “Tell me exactly...no, forget it. I’ll find out m
yself.”
He was already halfway to his pickup truck when John appeared in the doorway and yelled, “Good luck!”
Angel was really, really afraid, not just because of the grim expression on John’s face, but because he sensed that once again, his life was about to take a major turn. And he hated like hell to have it all depend on luck.
You could try prayer, St. Jude said in his head.
Trust me, baby...
Grace knocked on door number 217 at the Lafayette Hotel.
Luc was hiding at the far end of the corridor, keeping out of sight. Tante Lulu was waiting down in the lobby, fuming because they refused to let her come up with them.
The plan was for Grace, who carried a huge purse—one of Tante Lulu’s—that contained mostly cut-up newspapers with some bills on top, to enter the hotel room and leave the door unlocked so that Luc could later come in and scare the spit out of this slimeball. The police would not be involved, because Luc planned to get some critical information out of George Smith before kicking his butt out of Louisiana. Like where was Grace’s daughter, and how could they arrange a meeting? As it was now, they had only his probably fake surname, and a home in Atlanta, which might also be a lie, and even if both of those were true, how many George Smiths might there be in a city that size? Hopefully, all would be handled in a calm, nonviolent way.
“You’re late,” George snarled as he opened the door and shoved her inside.
Luckily, she was able to kick one leg back to keep the door from slamming shut. It appeared closed but was not totally.
George wore a “Got Hurricane!” T-shirt, which celebrated the famous French Quarter drink, not the natural disaster, tucked into a pair of pleated navy blue polyester pants. On the dresser was a bottle of Jim Beam and a half-filled glass of amber liquid. At noon? A suitcase lay open and packed on the bed; George must have been planning an immediate flight after their meeting.
“Actually, I’m right on time,” she said.
“You got the money?”
She nodded and dropped a heavy bag on the floor at her feet. “But first I want some answers.”
He immediately went on red alert. “Like what?”
“Like an address and phone number where I can make contact with my daughter.” She put up a halting hand as he began to protest. “I’m not looking to retaliate for the money I’m giving you, but I want to meet with Sar—I mean, Andrea, if she’s willing.”
“And if she’s not willing? I know for a fact she never went on one of them Internet sites where adopted kids search for their parents. How interested could she be?”
“I don’t care. I want to communicate with her, either by phone or mail. At the very least, I want her to know that I tried.”
“A bit late for that.”
She remained adamant.
“How ’bout I tell her that her birth mother wants a meeting, and then I’ll contact you.”
She shook her head. Once the sleazeball left, she might never locate her daughter.
Just then the door swung open, striking the wall, and Luc strolled in like John Wayne in a business suit, all guns blazing. Except that he carried no weapons. They were depending on Luc’s slick tongue, which some courtroom adversaries claimed was a formidable weapon in itself.
“You bitch! You called the cops.”
“No, Luc is my lawyer.”
“We just want to talk,” Luc said. “I’ve brought some documents for you to sign.”
“I’m not signin’ nothin’.”
“Calm down, man. We’ll negotiate a fair deal. Cash for information.” Luc walked slowly over to the bureau. “Let me pour myself a drink, and we’ll all behave like reasonable people. Grace, do you want a drink, too?”
Me? Whiskey, straight up? No, not at any time of the day, thank you very much. “Sure.”
But they both underestimated George. During that second when Luc and Grace were distracted, George rushed for the open doorway, shoving Grace to the floor and grabbing the purse with his other hand.
Luc was out of the room before she was, but George had already got into the elevator, and Luc was running down the stairway, with Grace in hot pursuit. When they emerged in the lobby, George was at the other end, heading for the revolving door.
Just then, Tante Lulu stood with a—oh, my God!—pistol in her hand, and yelled, “George?”
Surprised, George hesitated, and Tante Lulu fired the weapon, missing George and wiping out a wooden Native American that stood in front of a Houma Indian craft store among other lobby shops. In the melee that followed, George tripped, dropped the loot bag, and took off running down the street. They were unable to catch him.
Grace would have laughed if she wasn’t so sad over this lost opportunity. In fact, while the police were talking to Luc and Tante Lulu, she began to bawl, something she did way too much lately. The words blackmail and assault were being bandied about, even though Luc kept saying they didn’t want to press charges. As for Tante Lulu firing a pistol in a public place, the old lady was already on Luc’s cell phone to one of her cronies in high places.
Grace tried to pull herself together and was wiping her eyes with a tissue. They might be able to salvage this whole fiasco if there was some information in the suitcase George had left behind in his hotel room. She turned, about to do just that before the police swept the room.
And there stood Angel, staring at her with confusion...and hurt. “Grace?”
“What are you doing here, Angel?” She couldn’t keep the panic from her voice.
“What’s going on?” He looked at her, then at Luc, Tante Lulu, the police, the strident hotel staff, and curious onlookers.
“Nothing. Please go away.”
“Who was that guy running away?”
“Nobody. I mean it, Angel, go away.”
“I heard the police say something about blackmail. Surely...Grace! Is someone blackmailing you?”
“Don’t be silly.”
“What’s silly to me is everyone up and down the bayou knows what this big fuckin’ secret of yours is, but not me. Why is that, Grace?”
“That’s not true. The only ones who know are Tante Lulu and Luc.” Immediately, she realized her mistake. “I mean...there is no big secret.”
“Bullshit!” He narrowed his eyes at her. “This has something to do with why you can’t get married and have kids, doesn’t it?”
She would have tried to deny his claim, but a blush betrayed her.
“Damn!” he said and punched his fist into a column beside him, which caused the police to look their way. “Why can’t you trust me, Grace?”
She wanted to examine his grazed knuckles but knew he wouldn’t let her. “It’s not a question of trust.”
“Yeah, it is. And I’ll tell you this, babe, if anything convinced me that I don’t stand a shot in hell with you, this is it. Forget about love. You don’t even respect me.”
“Not true! But this is not the time for this discussion.”
“When is the time?”
She had no answer.
He shook his head with hopelessness. “I’ve never been bulletproof where you’re concerned, Grace, but I’ll be damned if I continue to be your bullet-riddled target anymore.”
With a grunt of disgust, he turned and walked away.
The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy...uh, bayou...
Lena was sitting in the yard behind Grace’s cottage helping Ella tie long strings on the balloons that Lionel and Miles were inflating with a helium tank on the back porch. They would be part of the decorations for the big housewarming party at their new home tomorrow night.
Hard to believe how much had happened to them in the past month or so. Tante Lulu and her family and friends had been like angels sent by God to help them while she was ill and recovering. Not only were she and her family to have a new home, but a trust fund had been set up to support them until they all, even she, had completed college. In addition, papers were being filed to give her full guard
ianship over her siblings, which should get CPS off their backs for good. She was still stunned by it all.
Grace came out with a tray and placed it on a picnic table. “I’ve set out lunch for you guys. If you need me, you have my cell number. I need to take Tante Lulu to the grocery store. We should be back in an hour.” She turned to Lionel then. “We’re going to visit some of Tante Lulu’s traiteur clients this afternoon if you’re interested in coming along.”
“Yeah. Sure. Hope she smokes a baby again.”
To show how accustomed they were becoming to the old lady’s weird ways, none of them even questioned Lionel’s outrageous statement.
After Grace was gone and she heard her car drive away, Lena put a CD on the portable player, and they all listened in an almost prayerlike fashion to their mother and father singing “Devil Blues,” followed by “Stormy Monday,” “Baby, Please Don’t Go,” and “Hard Luck Blues.” A series of Bessie Smith hits came next, including those old standbys “ ’Taint Nobody’s Bizness if I Do” and “Nobody Knows You When You’re Down and Out.” They all knew these homemade CDs by heart, and, although Lena had no great musical talents, she was thinking about studying music history in college. So maybe her parents had passed something on to her.
Lena glanced up from her balloon stringing, then did a double take. A young girl, about her age, was standing on the road in front of the cottage. With long red hair pulled back into a ponytail, she wore a black Atlanta Braves T-shirt and shorts leading down long legs to athletic shoes with no socks. She carried a worn purple backpack.
Although they’d been warned not to talk to strangers, this girl looked harmless. Lost, actually. The odd thing was, there was no car or bike. How had she gotten here?
Standing, Lena cautioned with a motion of her hand for the others to stay put. Walking around the house, she asked, “Can I help you?”
“Is this where Grace O’Brien lives?”
Lena nodded. “But she’s not here right now.”
The girl nodded back, studying the place. “It’s pretty here.”