by Zuri Day
“Like my mama always said. You can catch more people with sugar than vinegar.”
“More like hold them hostage, unable to leave your place until the last bite is gone.”
Ma chuckled, headed toward the door to welcome two new customers. Roz got lost in the sinful sweet treat, with thoughts of Friday’s confrontation and today’s resignation taking a back seat to the decadent, gooey goodness in front of her.
Casual conversation with a diner she’d seen there several times before further lightened the mood as they shared memories of their first experience at the house on Carrollton. Ma had Roz at “red crawfish bucket.” The diner, Lamar, who’d known “the food lady” since he was ten, shared that the first meal he’d ordered, the Old Glory Plate, was still his favorite. Roz readily admitted that she, too, loved that meal. The combination of spicy red beans and long-grain white rice topped with golden-fried nuggets of blue catfish was Ma’s first signature dish and remained the most popular.
Listening to Lamar’s sometimes comical, sometimes frightening memories of growing up a few doors down from a community treasure was quite entertaining. By the time Roz scraped up the last spoonful of gooey goodness, thoughts of Pierre had all but disappeared. She finished the dish, placed twice as much cash on the table as her bill demanded, and thinking to go shopping before heading home, went to freshen up.
“Well, now! Whatcha’ got cookin’, good-lookin’?”
Roz smiled at Ma’s clever greeting, closing and locking the red wooden door. She used the facilities, reapplied gloss, then continued eyeing herself in the mirror as she fooled with her hair and thought about chopping it all off—the same as her attempts to emotionally cut Pierre from her heart. The idea was either harebrained or genius. Roz went in search of Ma to tell her which one.
“Hey, Ma. What do you think about...” Words sputtered and died out like a windblown candle. A tall, well-defined body stood at the kitchen entrance. Long, strong legs and broad shoulders she saw stiffen at the sound of her voice. Ma’s jauntily delivered hello from moments before took on new meaning. Pierre LeBlanc had dangerously good looks, with skills to serve up mouthwatering masterpieces in the kitchen, and bedroom, too. Her hold on the strap of her tote tightened as she tiptoed down the short hallway and hurried toward the exit.
“Rosalyn!”
Act as though you don’t hear her. She’ll never know. Two more steps and she could reach for the doorknob.
“Hey, Roz. Ma’s calling you.”
Roz bit back an expletive, now regretting the fun conversation she’d shared with Lamar, and that she’d told him her name. She turned with the hope that Ma would come out of the kitchen. Ma did not. Roz recrossed the dining area, avoiding Pierre’s disdainful stare. Ignoring the wide girth he gave her as though she was poison.
“Yes, Ma?”
“I know you weren’t going to try and sneak out of my place without saying goodbye.”
“It wasn’t that. I just realized the time and was rushing out—”
“No, I’ll leave.”
Ma rose to her full height of four-eleven to block the six-foot-plus man’s path. “You can if you want. But invitations to my kitchen don’t come often. And I asked you here to share more than recipes.”
“Yeah, I’m now fairly certain why you called.”
“I didn’t ask her to.” Roz knew she sounded defensive. When protecting oneself, it came with the territory.
“And I didn’t ask you,” Pierre snarled, then shifted his stance to give Roz his back. “Look, Ma, I appreciate you inviting me down, I really do. But I can’t stay, not as long as she’s here.”
“You don’t have to worry about that, son,” Ma answered, her voice low as she looked beyond Pierre’s left arm. “She was on the way out before you got here.”
Chapter 25
Pierre took a deep breath to calm himself, even as he acknowledged that he wasn’t totally crazy. One question had been answered, at least. When he reached the entrance to Ma’s kitchen he hadn’t been hallucinating. Along with the classic aromas of Creole cuisine...he’d smelled her. The scent that he’d drowned in on so many nights, that he’d lapped up like nectar, along with the honeydew drops from her heat. Citrus and jasmine, cinnamon and sex, those nights he’d hoped would go on forever. The nights when he first began to believe that all women weren’t like his mother, that there may be someone who wouldn’t leave him like she did.
“She didn’t write that story.”
The simple act of raising his head was almost too much. “Is that what this invitation is about? You trying to defend what can’t be defended?”
“No, not only that, although considering what I witnessed happening between the two of you that first night you came here, I believe she’s at least worth being heard out. Tonight is about food. I’ve decided to do something that I haven’t done in the forty-plus years I’ve sold affordable meals to the hungry—in this house and around the city. I’m going to pass the torch, share the secrets of the food that keeps people coming back.”
Pierre’s eyes became misty as her generous words reached his ears. “But...why? And why me?”
“Because you’re the son I never had, for one reason. But there’s another one, too.” Ma’s eyes traveled from Pierre’s questioning face to the clock on the wall. “Let me turn on the blue light and finish up these last customers.”
Pierre watched Ma walk out of the kitchen, amazed that someone who’d met him only twice could convey more love to him in five minutes than his mother had in almost fifteen years. At the very least Ma deserved to say her piece and have him listen. The laughter that drifted in from the modest dining area was proof of how good her food made people feel. He knew how it made him feel. At the end of the day, wasn’t that what cooking was all about? The experience that one’s food evoked? The memories? The love?
Pierre was a bit shocked to realize that in the whirlwind of the past two years—the Chow Channel, Intense Energy, his own restaurant, Easy Creole Cuisine—the reason he’d fallen in love with cooking in the first place had been partly forgotten.
He looked around Ma’s unassuming kitchen. Saw it with new eyes. The stove, sparkling white at one time, he assumed, now yellowed and encrusted, holding the burns and scorches of a thousand dances with cast-iron skillets and pots, like the one bubbling now on the right side back burner, holding what Pierre no doubt knew would make a couple sell their first child. To the right of the stove, a variety of worn, scratched cookware hung from a rusting steel holder leveled to be within Ma’s easy reach. On the wall to the left were makeshift shelves of unpainted pinewood with dried herb and spice-filled containers of every shape and size filling each row. A stainless steel mobile counter took up the rest of the wall. It had seen better days, as had the wall behind it with its stained and peeling wallpaper and rotting baseboards. In that moment the reason hit Pierre like a fist. Katrina had been here and left a calling card.
Beneath the counter were what Pierre imagined to be twenty-five to fifty pound plastic bins filled with white rice and dried red beans, and shelves of smaller containers holding flour, meal, sugar and other staples. Behind him, a rickety refrigerator appeared to be a match to the stove, along with an upright, side-by-side freezer no doubt filled with locally sourced seafood and Ma’s original boudin. It was a room full of misfits, rejects and make-do magic all being used to save people’s lives.
Pierre heard Ma’s sure footsteps and turned as she entered the kitchen. “What’s the blue light?”
“Means I’m done for the night. Wanted to use a red one to indicate I’d stopped serving, but people might have mistaken that to mean I was serving up something else!”
Pierre laughed at Ma’s boldness, an easy mirth that continued for the next hour as they cooked side by side. Ma wouldn’t let him write down the secrets she shared, but provided tips to help him remember.
“Holy trinity, divinity, spice. All call, black ball, always nice.”
A catchy saying that translated into the ingredients for Ma’s original spice mix. Pierre eyed her movements like a hawk, soaked up the knowledge like a sponge. After setting a mix of her signature spicy sausage to marinate, Ma poured two glasses of sweet tea, gave them to Pierre and ordered him out of the kitchen. She came behind him moments later with two steaming bowls of jambalaya. Now that Pierre had peered behind the magic, the food seemed even more delicious.
He ate several spoonfuls, then set down the spoon and wiped his mouth. “I still can’t believe you did what you did.”
“Shared my secrets?” Ma shrugged. “Wouldn’t have done the world much good to take them to the grave.”
Pierre nodded. Since finding out about Alana he’d become more aware of life and death conversations, and they’d taken on new meaning. Recent events with his mother and Roz had further ground home the point that one could be alive but dead inside, and dead but really alive. Pierre was living, breathing, moving, functioning. But without Roz in his life... It was a thought he forced his mind not to finish. To do so would be an acknowledgment that he missed her. He couldn’t do that.
He could get another question answered, though, one that had bugged him all evening. He leaned against the plastic chair, rocked it off the floor. “Earlier you said that sharing spice secrets was only one of the reasons you invited me here. Was Roz the other?”
“Yes and no.”
“I don’t understand that answer.”
“I know, but you will.” Ma pushed the half-eaten bowl of jambalaya away from her and took a long drink of tea. After wiping her mouth with a napkin, she folded her hands before her and peered into Pierre’s eyes.
“I knew your mama.”
Pierre didn’t say a word for forty-five minutes. When he left, even before driving away from the curb in front of Ma’s he dialed Roz’s number. The call went to voice mail.
He grappled with whether or not to leave a message and decided against it. If Roz didn’t answer because she was angry with him, leaving a message wouldn’t matter. If she didn’t want to see him again didn’t matter either. They would have at least one more face-to-face conversation. That much was up to Pierre. What happened after he said what he said would be up to Roz.
* * *
“Is that him?”
It was just past eleven. After an evening of going crazy inside her head and swearing that she wouldn’t bring Stefanie into her drama, Roz was on the phone with her BFF.
“Well, is it?” Stefanie repeated, an octave higher than before.
“Yes, but I’m not answering it.”
“Why not? We can talk later. You and Pierre need to talk now.”
“Have you forgotten what I just told you about earlier tonight? Pierre is still very angry with me and I don’t blame him. Trust me when I tell you that he and I don’t even need to see each other, let alone have a conversation.”
“He called, Roz. One only does that when they want to communicate with who’s on the other end of the line.”
“Communicate or curse out.”
“It’s talking either way.”
“I don’t need any more of that type of talk. I already feel bad enough.”
“That’s because you insist that this is all your fault, Roz, but it’s not. You didn’t write the article and you didn’t tell Andy about Pierre.”
“True, but had I not said anything at all—hadn’t mentioned the subject to Andy, even generally, hadn’t flown to LA on company time or used their funds, there wouldn’t have been a story. When it comes to breaking news, Andy’s a bloodhound. I should have known that after telling him and then tabling the subject would only ratchet up his curiosity. Should have anticipated he’d go around me to gain information. Should have driven home the point to Flint that what he’d shared with me had to remain confidential. But I didn’t do any of that. I was too wrapped up in my feelings for Pierre and thinking that alone held the key to news that would change his life forever.”
“I understand everything you’re saying, Roz, but I’m not going to help you fall on the sword. I still maintain that had Andy more respect for your talent, perspective and overall working relationship, he would have never released that story. Had he a conscience or thread of moral decency, he would not have allowed it to run without giving Pierre a heads-up, at the very least. Sure, if given a second chance there are things you would have done differently. But you did not write nor publish that article. That part of the equation, the most important and damaging, is not on you. It’s on Andy, Paige and NO Beat.”
“Thanks, Stef. It doesn’t necessarily help me feel better, but in time I’ll probably come around to that point of view. Tonight I’m full into pity partying, mud wallowing and telling myself I’m the worst kind of friend.”
“Just as you feel your actions make you disloyal, his actions toward you make him an A-hole.”
“Stef—”
“My opinion’s not up for discussion.”
“Like I said, I’ll probably come back to pissed off later. But not tonight.”
“Continue dancing with the doldrums if you must, but I’m going to let that be at a party of one. We have a photo shoot tomorrow with the model from hell. It’ll probably last all day. I’ll need a good night’s sleep, an hour of yoga and placement on Mom’s prayer list just to get through it.”
Roz laughed in spite of having labeled herself a disloyal girlfriend, and her goal to feel appropriately miserable. “You’ll be amazing, as always. And, hey. Tell your mom to put me and my situation on that prayer list, too.”
Chapter 26
For the second time in three days, Pierre pulled his car up to Roz’s house. The first time was Monday night after talking with Ma. Even though it was late, he’d left her humble abode determined to apologize for his actions and share with Roz what else was on his mind. But he’d arrived at a house that was dark save for a dim light coming from her bedroom. He’d lost the nerve to disturb her and had gone home instead. Yesterday, Lisette had called with news that further upset him. It had easily been the most contentious conversation the close siblings had ever had. That experience, and his continued unsettled feelings for Roz, made for little sleep.
Pierre was used to a hectic lifestyle, but he knew this kind of stress could not be maintained. Which was why Wednesday night found him once again looking for a place to park his SUV near Roz’s vintage bungalow. He pulled in on a side street, just around the corner from her front door. Once on the sidewalk he was relieved to see a light on in her living room. She was home and still awake. He stood there a moment, trying to think of a way to apologize and stay strong. She’d be angry. A deserved reaction, given the way he’d acted. After that night in the courtyard she’d sent a text saying she understood his outrage and still wanted to talk. He hadn’t responded. She hadn’t tried again. The next time they’d seen each other was the other night at Ma’s. Remembering how he’d acted there gave him even less confidence to knock on her door.
“Nothing’s going to happen with me dawdling here,” he mumbled, finally stepping forward. He rang the doorbell. Waited. Rang it again. Waited longer this time.
A thought occurred to him. What if she’s with someone? It was a possibility he’d not considered. One that made him want to race to his car on one hand and break down the door on the other. He tried the screen door. It was unlocked. He opened it and knocked—actually banged, pounded—on the wooden front door. He heard Banner’s ferocious barking, imagined him jumping toward the door, ready to charge the assailant. Just as Pierre raised his fist to knock again, the door was jerked open.
“I tried the doorbell,” he said, as if to explain the incessant pounding. “Sorry to come by unannounced.”
“Then why did you?” Roz demanded, as she wrestled to control a barking Yorkie squirm
ing to get out of her arms.
“Didn’t think I’d get an invitation had I called.” He looked at Banner and tried to lighten the situation. “Doesn’t look like I’m too welcomed now.”
Roz’s expression made it clear that the attempt didn’t work.
“May I come in?”
“It’s late.”
“What I have to say won’t take long.”
“You don’t think you’ve said enough already?”
Obviously, or I wouldn’t be here. A thought not verbalized as he met Roz’s steely mahogany eyes with his own turbulent stare. He braced himself for having the door slammed in his face and breathed a sigh of relief when she turned, released Banner and walked into the living room. Pierre followed her. When she reached the middle of the room, she turned around, crossed arms serving as armor. Expecting a fight.
“Okay. You’re in. What is it?”
“I see you’re not going to make this easy.” He shoved clammy hands into his jeans pockets. Forced his breathing to remain slow and easy. “I’m sorry.”
He watched those two words wash over her, ease a bit of the stiffness in her back. Just a little.
“I am sorry for not hearing you out, for all of the accusations and quick judgment. Knowing you the way I do, it should have been obvious that there was more to the story than what I assumed. I’m sorry for the other day. Said a lot of stuff that I can’t take back. That in hindsight I didn’t mean. I had over a decade of anger and hurt inside of me and it exploded on you.”
“You had every right to be angry. What happened was my fault.”
“But you didn’t write the article.”
“No, but I inspired the curiosity that led to my sources being deceived and the story breaking. Which is why I’m no longer there.”
“You quit your job?”
“I couldn’t work for someone who’d do that to me, to anybody.”
“Who’d deceive you, right?”
Roz nodded.
“Then I still don’t understand how what happened is your fault.”