by Liz Talley
Lacy flipped her blond hair over her shoulder and made a face. “Are you shitting me? You’re fabulous. When I watch you on stage, I forget you’re Eden. You become someone else. It’s like the weirdest and yet most wonderful thing in the world. Getting out of Morning Glory and showing the world how good you are at dancing and singing and acting is something you have to do. Promise me you’ll try.”
“Lacy, I can’t promise you that,” Eden said, nibbling the last of the cheese stuck to the homemade bread Lacy’s mom made every week, then tossing the honey-brown crust to a noisy mallard. She’d just finished a run at the repertoire theatre in Jackson. The reviews had been good, but it was Jackson. Not New York City.
“Yes, you can.” Lacy unwrapped another piece of Dubble Bubble. “Why can’t you?”
“You know why.” Eden sighed.
“Yeah, well, it’s not fair. Why should you have to stay here and take care of your mother? Sunny’s totally selfish if you ask me. She didn’t think about anyone but herself when she took off—”
“I don’t blame Sunny,” Eden said, popping a green grape into her mouth. The sweetness was a reminder of what she’d lost that day back in June. When her mother had collapsed at work. When she’d lost her future. “What happened to Mama came after Sunny left. She didn’t know Mama would have a stroke. Sunny had to get out. My sister was destroyed by what Henry did. I don’t blame her for running. Hell, she got out while she could.”
Lacy frowned, knitting her high-arched brows together. She looked like that viral Grumpy Cat from Facebook. “But you won’t get out.”
“I can’t leave. Not now.”
“One day you will. I’ll make sure you do. You’ll have your chance to shine, Eden. You deserve that.”
And Lacy had given her that chance. Too bad Eden was mucking it up so badly. The whole money thing, the stupid bracelet, the actual thought of something good happening for her, was a fairy tale sold to her by someone who only saw possibility, never reality. When Lacy died, Eden’s heart had broken. The bouncy blonde had been the glue in their group. Eden loved Rosemary and Jess. How could she not? But Lacy was, well, Lacy. Like the fireworks Eden watched out her window on the Fourth of July, her friend was so alive, so full of energy and dazzling color exploding in the darkness, and then . . . no more. Lacy had left a legacy behind. But Eden wasn’t like Jess and Rosemary. She didn’t have family money or the skills to bring home a decent paycheck. All Eden had was gumption and grit . . . and a killer high kick.
And obviously that wasn’t enough.
So she was throwing herself another pity party. Bring out the confetti and light the candles on the soggy cake. She had every reason to sulk because on top of the parking ticket, the used laptop Rosemary had given her crashed last week. Eden had taken it to a local repair shop that had good reviews, but the stupid thing couldn’t be fixed. Cost her a hundred bucks for the guy to tell her she should trash the thing and get a new reconditioned one. Something she couldn’t afford, not to mention she still hadn’t bought the expensive psychology textbook. Two days earlier, her sister had phoned with a request for help with her mother’s medicine, which wasn’t covered by insurance. Sunny had used her own savings to start fixing up the old house so she and Eden could put it on the market. Eden knew Sunny didn’t want to stay in Morning Glory, but she wasn’t sure putting their mother in a retirement home was a good idea. Sure, the old house was in disrepair, but it was home. And Eden wasn’t sure they could afford a fancy adult-care facility. With all the cuts to health services, they were lucky her mother qualified for home health care.
God, everything felt so out of control.
This is what she got when she tried to spread her wings.
A total smackdown.
“Hey, Eden, isn’t it?” someone said, jarring her out of her desperate thoughts.
Yeah, her pity parties were now a habit. Perhaps she should try party planning as a major. Was that an actual major? “Hi, Jordan.”
Jordan Somebody or Other blinked at her with big doe eyes. “Whatcha doin’ out here? We have class.”
“I’m tossing streamers,” Eden muttered.
Doe eyes blinked. Then blinked again. “Huh?”
“Never mind. Just trying to decide whether I should withdraw from this class or try to manage without a textbook.”
Jordan had long platinum hair straight from a bottle and she was too thin, but very friendly. Like Bambi. Yeah, doe eyes, knobby knees and a wildflower innocence. “Those things cost an arm and leg, huh? I dug under couch cushions to get enough for mine.”
“What’s with them costing so much?”
“I don’t know. People who got, got. People who don’t, don’t. Textbook people must live good.”
So Bambi was a student of the school of hard knocks where Eden currently held a master’s degree. “Yeah, I need, like, three jobs and a winning lottery ticket to afford that textbook.”
Jordan laughed. “Wait, you looking for a job?” She cocked her head in an adorable manner.
“I have a part-time job as a nanny, but I think I need to find something else. Just not making enough.” Eden normally wouldn’t admit something like that to a stranger. She was very private. Misery might love company, but Eden had learned early on that complaining about her life or admitting she didn’t have what she needed prompted a response she didn’t want from others. They either pitied her or wanted to get away from her. So she kept it all in. But Jordan seemed a kindred spirit. Like knew like.
“You wouldn’t be interested in a waitressing job or anything, huh? The place I work is hiring, but it’s kinda a different joint, you know? They like a certain look.”
Strip club probably. Or Hooters. Eden wasn’t doing that. She’d scrub toilets at a rest stop before she worked in a place like the one that wrecked her mother’s life or one that showcased her butt in shortie shorts. No way. “Uh, I don’t think so. Thing is, I had a job lined up at a dance studio but that fell through. The one I have is good, but I’m not sure I can afford to stay in school. Unless I rob a bank.”
Jordan grinned. “You’d look good in orange, but do you really want to do that whole prison thing?”
“Probably not.”
“Look, I withdrew from school last year and saved up some money. Doing that worked out way better than stressing out. The tips at Gatsby’s are killer good. I saved what I needed in no time. And if you have experience in dance, you definitely want to check this place out. Gatsby’s is the hottest club in New Orleans right now. Hell, it’s the hottest in the whole damn state. Let me know if you’re interested. I happen to know Frenchie’s looking for someone for the ensemble. I’ve pretty much got two left feet, so I’ll stick to being a cocktail waitress, but you might be perfect.”
“Ensemble?”
Bambi—uh, Jordan—nodded. “Like a chorus line thing. Let me know if you want more info. We gotta go.” The girl jerked a thumb toward the classroom Eden had abandoned minutes ago.
“Go on ahead.”
Hmm. A position in an ensemble? That didn’t sound like a strip club. What the heck was Gatsby’s anyway?
Pulling out her cell phone, Eden spied a bench near the double doors of the building. Sinking down, she entered the name into the search engine. Immediately the site popped up. Gatsby’s, the quintessential vintage New Orleans experience. Five minutes later, she had a pretty good idea what Gatsby’s was about—a sexy speakeasy with cabaret-style performances, tasteful burlesque, and designer cocktails. The ratings were insanely good and every major New Orleans publication had done a review or feature on the place. With a cigar room, New Orleans-style brass band, and elaborate costumes and stage productions, Gatsby’s was the hot spot.
Hmm.
Eden would never consider working at a strip club or anything near that, but Gatsby’s wasn’t quite a strip club, and the idea of being in an ensemble stirred something in her. She missed dancing. For the past few weeks, she’d not been able to summon the energy to put toge
ther her barre and construct an area in her apartment for her daily stretching and dance repetitions. Her body begged to be challenged, her mind longed to lose itself in music. She needed that therapy. But to withdraw from school . . .
She looked around at the scuffed walls with the bulletin boards peppered with flyers, the gleaming linoleum. This was why she was here, right? She wanted a degree. To defy expectations. To be something other than a loser Voorhees in a crumbling house driving a run-down car. Okay, so she wasn’t exactly a hillbilly, but she was pretty close.
Still, she couldn’t quit her job with Nick and Sophie. At least not yet. Not if she wanted to eat and pay the bill for the stupid phone that had become her lifeline to everything that mattered, namely Jess and Rosemary. She could text them at any moment, check their photos online. Feel like she was still with the people who loved her unconditionally. So at this point, she had to have a place to sleep, food, and her phone. Maybe she could advertise for a roommate?
A door down the hall closed, and Eden realized it was the one to her class. The professor had closed the door.
Was that a sign?
Close the door. For now.
She looked at the phone in her hand. Then she dialed the familiar number she always dialed when she needed solid advice.
“Hey,” Jess said, out of breath.
“Uh, did I interrupt something?” Even though Jess and Ryan weren’t married, they seemed to treat every day like a honeymoon. So it wasn’t atypical for Jess to answer the phone out of breath.
“Tabada.” Jess panted.
“Ta-what?”
“It’s a high-intensity training regimen developed by some doctor in Japan back in the ’90s. It kicks your ass.”
“Oh. Well, I’ll stay away from it,” Eden said.
“Ryan’s into it right now so I’m trying to be supportive. And not die while doing it. What’s up?”
“Never mind. You sound busy.”
Jess panted some more. “I can take a break. What do you need?”
A thousand dollars. A glass of wine. A pedicure. “Some Jess advice.”
“Shoot.”
“Well, I, uh . . .” God, why was it so hard to say “I’m out of money” or “I don’t think I can do this”? Probably because everyone knew how long Eden had waited for something good in her life. She’d watched the world go by while she stocked shelves with cheap crap no one wanted but couldn’t resist because it was only a dollar. “It has to do with an opportunity. I’m thinking about auditioning for an ensemble at a local dinner theatre, but I’m not sure—”
“You should totally do that, E. I know you miss performing. That’s your zone, and you need that, right?”
“I do.”
“So go for it. Unless you think it will interfere with your studies. How’s that going, by the way?”
Being that she was sitting out in the hallway contemplating everything about herself while her class took their first quiz . . . uh, not so well. But she wasn’t going to admit that. Not to Jess. Maybe not to herself even. “Fine. It just may take me longer than I thought to do this.”
Jess sounded like she was gulping water. “That’s okay. You don’t have to rush. And Lacy gave me good advice in my goodbye letter. Don’t be afraid to stray down a new path. So this opportunity could be your new path. I mean, I’m sure the nanny job is okay, but your passion lies on the stage. And this could lead to something, right? Maybe it’s your drugstore stool.”
“What?”
“You know, like in Hollywood. Weren’t some actresses discovered at a drugstore? All I’m saying is this could be an opportunity for something great.”
Was it? Eden wasn’t so sure. She’d never been much of a risk taker except when on stage. Sometimes when the spotlight was on her, she slid into the zone and every risk paid off. She was no longer the pathetic discount store manager. She was someone else, emoting into whichever character she needed to be. She became sultry or beaten-down or sexy or tragic. She dove in wholeheartedly and that’s where she lived. Right in that moment. But could she do that in ensemble? And would her withdrawing from school sidetrack her too much? Perhaps if she took this new trail, she might never find her way back to her original destination. Like her mother, who started stripping so she could afford nursing school. Two rehab stints and two bad marriages later, Betty moved through life in a wheelchair. She never saw nursing school or anything better than General Hospital.
But Eden wasn’t her mother.
And Gatsby’s wasn’t an airport strip club.
“You’re right. I may have to do this. Wish I was as decisive as you, Jess. You always have direction.”
“Are you joking? Ever since the divorce, I’ve been very flip-floppy.”
“Hazard of beach life?”
Jess’s bark of laughter felt like old times. Something stilled inside Eden. She had people rooting for her, people who would catch her . . . if she would only let them. “A gal should be flip-floppy at the beach. But it’s more like I stopped bulldozing my way through life and looked around me at other possibilities. So far, it’s working for me. Really working for me.”
“I know. He’s gorgeous and rich and super-smart. His shirt selection is in doubt, but—”
“No kidding. I keep trying to do his shopping, but he’s addicted to perusing GQ for his look. That and Jimmy Buffett.” Jess’s voice held love and laughter. Her friend had a good thing going, and after the fiasco with her ex-husband, Jess deserved everything Ryan brought her. “Look, do what you have to do. You’re out of Morning Glory, and opportunity is around you. Don’t be scared, E. You can do this. I know you can. You’re one tough chickadee.”
“You bet your ass I am,” Eden said, finally feeling convinced. Because adapting to change, to hiccups, to bumps in the road was what survivors did. They found a new way to fight their adversary. After all, her enemy was an old friend. Poverty never left her alone. So she’d regrettably withdraw from school, but she’d go back. Eden wasn’t a quitter. She merely had to find a better way to achieve her goal.
So why did it feel like she was quitting on something?
“Okay, I have to get back to kettlebell swings. Thanks for giving me a break.”
“I’m always good for it,” Eden said. “Thanks for the advice. I miss you, Jess.”
“I miss you too. But New Orleans isn’t far away. I’ll come visit. And you can come here. That emerald water is waiting on you.”
“Love you,” Eden said.
“Back at you.”
Eden hung up and stared at a flyer for a band named Money Juice on the bulletin board across from her. She wasn’t quitting. She was rolling the dice. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. And she needed gain. Big gain. Holding two jobs would allow her to pay her bills and save for the next semester. Rising, she headed toward her advisor’s office. She dreaded telling him she’d have to withdraw. He’d been so enthusiastic about her course of study. But it had to be done.
As she pushed open the door, she clicked on the link for Gatsby’s and dialed the number. She’d use Jordan as a reference. If she couldn’t get ensemble, she could wait tables. She just hoped she had packed her push-up bra. Cleavage was necessary for good tips when one was a cocktail waitress, and Eden was challenged in that department.
Fake it to make it.
Nick unlocked the front door and pushed into the foyer of his Lakeview house. The air smelled like home—a combination of lemon furniture polish and chicken noodle soup. Strangely, a peaceful, easy feeling settled over him. Like an Eagles song. Like the soft quilt at Grammy’s house. Like a good cup of coffee on a cold morning. Comforting.
He heard her singing before he saw her. Eden’s voice was good, almost sultry, which didn’t fit her at all. She should have sounded like Joni Mitchell, not Etta James.
“I’m home,” he called out, glancing at his watch. He was late. Almost seven o’clock.
“Hey, we’re in here,” Eden called from the direction of the kitchen.
/> Nick set his messenger bag on the credenza along with his keys and cell phone and walked into the kitchen. Sophie sat in her chair at the breakfast table, tongue caught between her teeth as she tried to butter rolls sitting on a baking pan. Eden stood at the stove, pouring macaroni noodles into a large dutch oven. And though Nick had arrived plenty of times to Rhoda and Sophie involved in domestic activity that warmed his heart, something about the scenario playing out in front of him squiggled deep inside. Sister Regina Marie had been right. Eden fit them.
His new nanny wore a ruffled apron cinched around her tiny waist. Her ebony hair was tucked behind dainty ears and her face looked slightly flushed.
“Hey, welcome home.”
Magic words after a too-long day. He could almost imagine this was how it should be. And though he wasn’t a sexist pig, he could acknowledge something about a woman saying those words while she looked cute and homey and—He couldn’t go there. Dumb idea.
Sophie looked up, and for the first time in weeks, his daughter smiled. “Hi, Dad.”
Nick walked over and kissed her head. Her hair smelled clean and she had sparkly barrettes holding back the tangle of waves. “Hey, Soph. How was school today?”
“Good,” Sophie said, redirecting her attention back to her task. Several pats of butter dotted the parchment paper, but she’d managed to cover most of the rolls with the spread.
“Hope you don’t mind, but I made my maw maw’s vegetable soup,” Eden said, picking up a wooden spoon and giving the soup a stir. Steam wafted up to curl about her face like she was a character in a fairy tale. Snow White. She’d totally be Snow White. “I’m not a great cook, but since it’s cold and rainy, I figured it would be appreciated. Can’t screw up this recipe.” She turned the burner to low and untied her apron.
“You don’t have to cook for us. I can bring something from one of the restaurants.” But he hadn’t. After another showdown with the head chef at the flagship restaurant, he’d wanted nothing more than to get out, escape to something easier. Which was how home felt now. Chef Dom Rizzo had made his mark thirty years ago, but as he grew older, his temper grew meaner and Nick, who’d grown up at the man’s knee, could no longer reason with him. The thought of firing Rizzo made his stomach cramp. How could he replace an institution? One who made sauces so good the governor of Louisiana had once picked his plate up and licked it clean. No joke. But complaints about Rizzo from the wine steward down to the busboy couldn’t be ignored any longer. They’d already lost two prep chefs and their best waiter to Rizzo’s shenanigans.