by Anna Martin
Remy waved as Susannah turned back to the courtyard of the school to call her driver and wait. “How’s ninth grade treating you so far?” he asked as he slung an arm across Grace’s shoulders. She was only about a head shorter than he was. He wondered if she’d be taller than him by the time she was done growing.
She shrugged. “It’s school. Same old shit, you know.”
“Grace.” Remy had to chuckle. “Don’t let Dad hear you talking like that.”
“Right. I don’t want to get grounded for the rest of the school year.” Their father encouraged talking, laughing, even the occasional bout of shouting, but swearing wasn’t on his acceptable list. At least not for a “little lady” like Grace.
Remy chuckled. “So what do you wanna do today?”
“Cooking lesson?” Grace asked. Just as she’d been asking for the past three years. She’d decided back when she was in sixth grade that she wanted to be a chef like Remy and Andre. She was just as into food as either of them and was already showing a ton of talent. She wanted to get into Cordon Bleu in Paris and open her own restaurant in the city eventually, when she returned. Remy couldn’t be more proud of her.
“Always. Anything specific you want to learn? We might have to hit the market.”
Grace smiled. “I really liked that shrimp pasta you made last week.”
“Shrimp pasta is it.”
* * *
One trip to the market later found them in the quiet Lumiere kitchen. He preferred teaching Grace at the restaurant rather than their busy kitchen at home with Grandma poking her nose in and Andre telling her his way of doing things every ten seconds, which was of course opposite from whatever Remy had been trying to teach her. He wanted Grace to develop her own style, not listen to her brothers bicker. It was better for both of them to do the lessons in the cafe.
“Hey, Chicken,” he said after they’d been cooking for a while. “Mama says things have been a little weird between you and her lately. Are you okay?”
“Ohhh.” Grace chuckled. “So this is you trying to grill me for information. I see. And stop calling me Chicken. You know it annoys me.”
“Of course it annoys you.” Remy grinned. “This is only a lesson. I just want to make sure my best girls at home are getting along.”
Grace nudged him with a shoulder. “I love Mama. I always will. I’m just—” She broke off and focused on whisking the sauce.
“What is it?”
“Nothing. Just… it’s nothing.” She poured the sauce into the pan where her shrimp were happily grilling away.
“You know you can talk to me if you want. I’ll even do my best with girl stuff, if it’s that.”
She snorted but kept moving like Remy had taught her—chopping, sautéing, seasoning in small layers for round flavor. “It’s not that.”
Slowly the kitchen filled with an incredible aroma—butter, garlic, cumin, and herbs all mingled with the shrimp. Grace had done what she usually did, which was listen to Remy’s instructions and add a few personal touches of her own.
“What smells so amazing?” came a voice from the doorway. Remy nearly jumped.
“Hi, Magnolia!” Grace had always liked their tenant slash adopted sister. “Remy’s teaching me his shrimp pasta recipe.”
“It looks divine,” she said.
“Do you and Stella want some?” Grace asked. Sophie’s dinner would be waiting at home for them, so Grace and Remy usually only tasted what they’d made to see if Grace had finished it right. No harm giving it to someone who could enjoy the whole thing.
“That sounds perfect.” Magnolia called up the stairs for Stella, who came bounding down in shorts, a tiny tank top, and sparkly leggings. She still had a few crayons clamped in her chubby little fingers. Remy scooped her up into his arms.
“How are you today?” he asked. He brushed her dark waves out of her face. Magnolia had tied Stella’s hair up into two tiny ponytails, but in the humidity her curls had escaped all around her face.
“Good. I’m wearing my sparkle pants, and Mommy got me new crayons. I drew a blue fish.”
Remy smiled. Some days he wished his life could be summarized by sequins, a few crayons, and a picture of a fish. Sadly, that wasn’t the case.
* * *
Dawson’s was packed by the time Remy and Andre got there. They’d had dinner with the family and showered before they left to meet Shawn and Bryce. Remy’s friends had sort of adopted Andre as one of their own. His friends from school hadn’t been… the best influence on him. He didn’t see them much after he’d graduated by the skin of his teeth. It was better that he stick with Remy’s.
“Hey, boys,” Shawn called. “We bought the first round.”
“Sweet.” Andre fist-bumped Bryce and Shawn and took a seat.
“How’s life for the Babineaux boys?” Bryce asked.
Remy made a face. “Same ol’ shit. Trying to keep the corporate world off our junk.”
“Your dad hasn’t dispatched that tool yet?” Shawn snorted into his beer.
“No, and our douchebag brother is on the side of the man. He thinks it’s an awesome idea to have Copacabana move right in on our territory.” Andre looked as though he was about to tear something apart with his teeth.
“I thought it was a Pineapple Joe’s,” Bryce said. “I was in one of those in Miami last spring. Not bad,” he added with a shrug.
“Fuck off.” Remy flicked a peanut at Bryce’s face.
“Ow, fucker! That could’ve been my eye.”
“Serves you right for consorting with the enemy,” Remy said. “I’d do it again if I thought my aim would be that good twice in a row.”
Shawn snickered.
They were into their third round when Remy noticed his least favorite unsavory character sitting at the bar with a screwdriver.
“Fuckfuckfuck.”
“What’s up, bro?” Andre asked.
“Pineapple Joe himself is right at the bar,” Remy muttered. He must’ve said it loud enough that Shawn heard, and he craned his neck to look.
“Hey, isn’t that the guy you banged the la—”
He clapped a hand over Shawn’s mouth. “Shut up.”
“I’m gonna go kill that fucker,” Andre muttered. “I didn’t do anything at the meeting in front of Dad, but I can now.”
Again, there was a reason they kept Andre out of the serious stuff most of the time. “Be cool, man. Just… leave him alone.”
“Right.” Andre stood. Not a good sign. Andre pushed his stool away and started stalking across the bar. Remy knew he had to do something.
“Fuck. I’m really not in the mood to get into a fight. You guys?”
Shawn chuckled. “Not particularly.”
He and Bryce stood along with Remy and followed Andre over to where a still-clueless Joe Fitzgerald sat sipping on his drink. Andre was about to reach out and shove the bastard when Remy caught his arm.
“Stop, man. Not worth it.”
Joe looked up. “Remy. Andre. Hello. Fancy meeting you here again.”
“Seriously.” He wasn’t about to punch the dickhead like Andre, but he wasn’t going to be friendly, either. Joe had nerve, acting like they were on good terms.
“Can I buy you a drink?” he asked.
“I don’t know, does it come in a cheesy plastic pineapple with a bobble-head hula girl on it?”
Joe cringed. “That wasn’t very polite. It’s just business, Remy. Nothing personal.”
“That’s what you don’t get, and you never fucking will. It is personal to me. That restaurant is part of my family. It’s our living, our history. It’s very personal.”
“And we’re prepared to give you a very good price for it. But not right now. Let’s sit down and have drinks like two friends.”
Remy made a face. He felt Andre pulling at his arm, as though he was about to try to punch Joe again. Remy was half tempted to let go. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. I’m just going to go home now. The clientele in t
his bar has… gone downhill.”
Remy tugged Andre to the door of the bar and out onto the street. “Don’t start any shit with him. We don’t want him or Sal or even Dad to have any ammunition against us.”
Andre growled and spit on the ground. “You weren’t exactly nice.”
“Not nice and punching the asshole are two different things. Just stay away.”
“Not going to be a problem.” Andre looked up at him. “What was it that Shawn was about to say?”
Oh God. Not exactly Remy’s shining moment. Andre raised his eyebrow curiously. And he was far from drunk. Shit. “Have you ever had a one-night stand that turned out to be a really bad idea?” Probably better just to spit it out.
“You’re fucking kidding me.” Andre looked halfway between anger and laughter.
“You have no idea how much I wish I was kidding. No idea.”
Shawn and Bryce chose that moment to pour out of the club. “Way to leave us with the tab, dickheads,” Bryce said. He shook his dark hair out and then raked it back.
Andre reached for his pocket. “I got this one, bro. I’m the reason we left.”
Remy grabbed his wallet and fished out some cash. “That cover it?”
“Of course. You didn’t really have to. I know where you live.”
“Nah, it’s fine. And I really should’ve been leaving soon, anyway. It’s fish market in the morning.”
“I thought you liked Thursdays the best,” Shawn said.
“I do. But I have some supplementing to do unless I want to cut a few menu items until then.”
“I’ll come in for lunch tomorrow. Buy extra shrimp,” Shawn promised. He winked. “Watch Andre here try to flirt with Magnolia and fail miserably.”
“Low blow, douchewad,” Andre said.
Remy felt bad for his brother. But Shawn had a point. They’d all seen months of Andre’s pining. Years. It was so past the point of borderline pathetic. Remy slung an arm over Andre’s shoulders and said good night to his friends. “C’mon, brother, time to go home. I might even let you go pick the fish in the morning. I’m beat.”
“Really?”
Remy chuckled. “Nah. I was kidding.”
* * *
Joe got back to his rooms late that night—at least late for him. He’d stayed until nearly eleven and had four more drinks to wash away the irritation of his encounter with Remy and fighting Babineaux junior. Part of him wished the little punk had tried to land one on him. He’d spent years working out at the best gyms in LA; that little fucker wouldn’t have known what had happened until he was flat on his back, checking out the paint job on the ceiling.
He was long since due to call in to his boss, who happened to be the vice president of development and someone nobody wanted to fuck with. The three messages that were waiting on Joe’s phone told him he’d better deal with it, like, now. He was a little drunk, but he knew he could hold a conversation, and it was only eight at home. There was a good chance Leroy was still in the office.
Joe sank down onto the couch in his open-concept living room. The couch was nice. Actually, his whole apartment was. It was the best part of the city so far—well decorated, renovated, and most importantly, air conditioned. As much as he couldn’t stand the rest of the damn place, he did find the pale walls and cushy furniture in his apartment comforting. He pulled out his phone to dial his boss. Might as well get it over with.
“How are things going? Did you get a signature yet?” Leroy asked as soon as he picked up. Never one for small talk, was he? Joe had forgotten how the real world worked since he’d been in the world where it was considered rude not to chat for a half an hour before any actual business started.
“I’m working on it. It’s going great, and it’ll be all sewn up soon. Things just move a little slower here. I’ve got to make time to be polite.”
“God, I hate working in the South,” Leroy grumbled.
“You’re the one who sent me here,” Joe reminded him.
“We need a French Quarter location. Better you than me.”
“Thanks. Thanks a lot.” Joe wasn’t even remotely sober enough to deal with his boss. He’d been wrong. He went to his fridge and pulled out one of the iced bottled mochas he’d found at the store the other day. Closest thing to a Starbucks he’d found since he got to the quarter.
“Get it done, Joe. I want to have that location opened and running before Mardi Gras.”
“No problem. I’m on it.” Joe hung up. Fantastic.
He went over to the minibar, which he’d found necessary since he’d been stuck in this backwater city dealing with the most frustrating man in the history of time. He poured himself one more drink and downed it, wincing. Joe hadn’t ever been a huge drinker—messed with all of the training he did back home—but he would swear that by the end of his term with the Babineaux brothers, he was going to be some sort of alcoholic.
I hate this city. I want to get the hell out of here. Now.
It was a good three days before Remy had another encounter with the devil incarnate. He’d started to wonder if Pretty Boy had gotten tired of the game he wasn’t going to win no matter how hard he tried. Or at least found some other poor fucker to torment. Joe Fitzgerald had to have long since realized Lumiere wasn’t ever going to be his.
Remy was combing through the farmers’ market looking for the perfect things to serve at a private party that evening. Jessalyn Chambers, a girl who’d been coming to the cafe for years, had just signed a recording contract and she was having a dinner party. There were going to be music industry people there. Remy needed everything to be perfect. He’d wound around carts and stalls of produce, looking for just the right items.
“Do you have any of those Anjou pears you had last week?” he asked one of the stall owners. “I need some of them for a sauce—oops. I’m sorry!” Remy looked up at the wall of muscle he’d bumped into. Of course.
“Remy.”
“What are you doing here?”
Joe Fitzgerald shrugged. Remy was sorry he hadn’t let Andre punch him the other night. “I thought I’d check out the market. See if I couldn’t find any good local fruit.”
“Says the dickhead who wants to turn my ‘good local cafe’ into a tacky chain.”
I used finger quotes. I can’t fucking believe I used finger quotes.
“Hey, I’m just the messenger. I don’t actually own the company, you know. I just work for them.”
“And you weren’t in charge of scouting and developing locations?” Remy raised his eyebrows. “None of that was you?”
He could see the guy trying to come up with a way to say it that made him sound less like the vulture he was. “Okay, so maybe the location was my idea.”
“Right. Exactly. So you can come to the market to look for fresh local stuff while you’re stripping the rest of the city of its personality and putting up tourist traps that can be found up and down the Eastern Seaboard. That’s fantastic.”
The last thing Remy wanted was to get into it again with Fitzgerald right in the middle of the farmers’ market where everyone knew who he was. Then again, maybe they needed to know that someone was in town poaching land and tradition off them.
“Pineapple Joe’s is always good for whatever neighborhood it moves into. Brings more jobs.” Joe gave him a long look. “Keeps the building in perfect condition. Can you say that about your café?”
Joe knew damn well it wasn’t. They’d never hired more than Gerard and a couple of waitstaff. Lumiere was small, and even if it wasn’t, Remy couldn’t afford to have it crawling with unnecessary employees. He also couldn’t afford big corporate retrofits. That wasn’t the point, anyway.
“You really don’t give a shit that you take away local landmarks in every city where you land and spread your little parasitic box-restaurant around with its cheap, tacky souvenirs and cheap, tacky food and cheap, tacky everything. I want no part of that, and I don’t want it in my city.”
Joe looked offended. “Ev
erything up and down Bourbon Street is tacky and touristy. And you’re saying my restaurant will make that worse?”
“Lumiere isn’t on Bourbon Street. Maybe you should go find a location there, and leave us alone.”
“There aren’t any suitable locations right on Bourbon Street. This building fits all of our needs. That’s why we’d like to acquire it.”
Nothing about the current owners, the current cafe. Nothing other than seeing a target, figuring out that it was optimal, and fucking acquiring it. Remy wanted to scream. Was this guy a Terminator?
“You know what? I don’t want to talk to you any further without my father present or the lawyer I plan to bring to our next meeting. I’m done here.” He turned to Charles, the fruit vendor. “I’m really sorry we did this in front of your stall, Charles. Next time”—he glared at Joe Dickhead Fitzgerald—“we’ll be somewhere private.”
His father had another meeting set up. Or if he didn’t, Remy knew Joe would push and push until Tom Babineaux agreed to sit there and listen to his shit again. Remy knew guys like Joe. He’d dealt with them before. Somehow Joe would end up convincing Remy’s father that what he wanted was the best thing for all of them. Remy refused to let it happen on his watch.
“Have a nice day, Remy,” Joe said.
“Fuck off.”
* * *
“Hello?” Joe was tired and sweaty from a day of scouting alternative locations. After days of getting stonewalled by the Babineaux family, he was starting to think the sale wasn’t going to happen, and he needed to make something work in New Orleans before heading home. He had a heat headache, and the last thing he wanted to do was talk to anyone on the phone. Especially someone who had a New Orleans area code.
“Is this Joe Fitzgerald?”
“Yes, can I help you?”
“It’s Sal Babineaux. We haven’t met, but I’d like to talk to you.”
Sal…. Sal. Middle son. Money manager. Joe remembered reading about him on the dossier his assistant had put together when he was first preparing to come out.