by Liz Talley
“I know,” Eden said, interrupting his heavy thoughts, “but once I told Sophie stories about Maw Maw and her silly Chihuahua Poco, I got nostalgic for the smell of her soup. It was no trouble, especially since Sophie helped me.” Eden shot a smile toward his daughter.
Sophie didn’t look up, but Nick felt his daughter’s pleasure. Finally. The child had been a terror for the past two weeks. He wasn’t sure how Eden had managed to move Sophie, but somehow she’d made progress. Perhaps it was her nature. Unlike Rhoda, she didn’t push or fill the silence with idle chitchat. She gave Sophie space to grieve the loss of her former nanny and time to accept her presence. The woman was unfailingly patient in her approach.
“You should eat with us,” he said, hoping Eden would agree. He liked talking to her, but often she darted out as soon as he pulled into the garage. It was as if she was afraid of him. Or maybe she respected his privacy. Still, sometimes it was nice to have a conversation with an adult. “It’s raining pretty hard out there.”
“No, I should go. I have some work to do.” She pulled her apron overhead, making a hank of hair stick up at the crown of her head.
His hand clenched because if he touched her, it would cross a boundary he didn’t want to cross. There was something about Eden that called to him, but she was his employee. And Nick didn’t play those games.
“School?”
“Um, no. I’m thinking about taking a second job. I have an interview of sorts.”
Guilt slapped him. Should he be paying her more? Rhoda had always been fine with the salary he paid, but of course, he’d paid Rhoda more because she had more years of service. “Do you think a second job is a good idea?”
“It won’t interfere with taking care of Sophie. No worries there,” Eden said, her eyes shuttering. The woman didn’t reveal much about herself. She’d drawn a line with him and wasn’t crossing it.
“I wasn’t implying it would interfere,” he said, trying to smile to set her at ease. “You’ve been doing a fine job with Sophie. I just worry about you. Going to school full-time while working two jobs is a tall order.”
At those words, she lifted those startling violet eyes. “Why would you have to worry, Mr. Zeringue? I’m not your concern.”
“Call me Nick. Please.” He knew it wasn’t his concern, but who did the girl have to look after her? He had a big family—cousins who managed restaurants, parents who called him daily and one overbearing, interfering sister. But Eden had admitted on her first day she knew next to no one in the Crescent City. “And of course you’re right. I just—” He couldn’t say he cared about her. That might be weird.
And thankfully at that moment he was saved by the bell. Doorbell, that is.
“Should I get it?” Eden asked.
“I got it.” Nick walked to the door and peered out the mullioned panes on either side of the large wooden door. Looked like—
The door burst open before he could answer it.
—his sister.
“Good God, it’s coming down out there,” Caroline said, shaking her sleek blond coif and stepping past him. Damp, cool air followed her into the house, invading the warmth. “We have to talk about Rizzo. Mom says under no uncertain terms are you to let him go. She doesn’t care how many damn prep chefs we have to replace. Rizzo is Du Parrain.”
“Good evening to you too,” Nick drawled, closing the door behind his sister, who brushed errant droplets from the shoulders of her raincoat.
Caroline cocked her head. “Oh. Yeah. Good evening, brother dearest.” Her cat smile had feathers in it. That was Caro. Brash, opinionated . . . annoyingly smug. But she loved him. And she loved her family. So Nick tolerated her bossiness most of the time.
“Smart-ass,” Nick said, walking back to the kitchen. Eden had just slid the rolls Sophie had buttered into the top oven. She spun, her eyes taking in Caroline but giving nothing away.
“Oh, hello,” Caroline said, setting her no doubt overpriced purse on the granite island and studying the small woman sliding the oven mitt from her hand. “I’m Nick’s sister Caro. You must be the new nanny I’ve heard so much about.”
“You’ve heard a lot about me?” Eden said, her eyes darting to Nick, showing surprise.
“Well, I told her Soph has a new keeper,” he said. No big deal. Don’t scamper away like a frightened kitten.
“Oh, well, I’m Eden. It’s nice to meet you.” But Eden didn’t offer her hand. Like she knew her place. Something about that inaction bothered him. “I’m going now, Mr. Zeringue. Have a good night.”
She walked over to Sophie and leaned down, whispering something in his child’s ear. Sophie nodded and said, “Yes.”
Eden tugged a piece of Sophie’s hair. “See you tomorrow, ladybug.” Grabbing her bag and giving a brief wave, Eden slipped out the hall door.
“She’s cute.” Caro’s gaze measured him, weighed his reactions.
“Sophie seems to like her.”
“Nick seems to like her,” Caro said.
He jerked his gaze from the closed door. “What do you mean by that?”
Caro gave him a sly smile. “Don’t even. I can see the way you look at her.”
“Are you insane?” Nick cast a frantic look at Sophie to see if she heard his big-mouth sister, but his daughter had the iPad on the table in front of her, focused on controlling her hands enough to press the oversized buttons on YouTube. Thank God. “I don’t look any way at her. She’s a nice girl. She’s the nanny. Period.”
Caro shrugged. “I don’t care if you diddle the help. Apple from the tree and all that.”
“Caro,” he said, a growl in his voice. “She’s not the—”
“Isn’t she? But I’m joking. I know you’re not Dad. Just because he screwed the hostess at Du Parrain doesn’t mean you’re like him.”
“That’s a bad joke,” Nick said, sliding onto a barstool as Caro shrugged out of her raincoat, walked over to the bar, and pulled out two highball glasses. He loved Caro but he hated how she dealt with their father. Yeah, George Zeringue had cheated on their mother during a low point in their marriage. But their mother Dani had forgiven her husband after a year of counseling. Their parents were still together, and that meant something. Zeringues didn’t give up on one another. Not even when things got dark and twisty.
Pouring them each two fingers of Glenfiddich, she sauntered back, hiked up her beige pencil skirt, and sank down beside him. Clinking her glass to the one she set in front of him, she tossed back a healthy shot. With a sigh of contentment, she set the glass down and tented her fingers. “Sorry. I’m crappy at making jokes. I know you don’t diddle. Though you should.” She lifted an eyebrow and gave him a rare genuine smile. “You really should.”
“No time for diddling.” Nick sighed, taking a sip of the scotch. The fiery liquid shot straight to his stomach before radiating warmth.
“But diddling is such fun.” Caro studied the amber liquid, running a manicured nail around the rim. “Stephen left.”
“I’m sorry, Caro.”
“Yeah, me too. But it was inevitable. We wanted different things. I wanted a career. He wanted two point five kids and a ranch house in Mandeville.” Caro jutted her chin out even as tears glittered in her eyes. Those tears wouldn’t fall. His sister wouldn’t let them. That’s how much control she always had. Tough Caro.
“Two point five kids? How do you do half a kid?”
She rolled her eyes. “How would I know? I swear, I’m allergic to kids. Remember when Sophie would cry every time I held her?”
“She cried every time anyone held her, Caro.”
“Still.” For a moment Caro fell silent. She swirled the liquor in her glass. “What’s wrong with me?”
“What’s wrong with me?” he countered.
“Our parents. It’s all their fault. They totally screwed us up. We need therapy.” Caro cracked a smile. Lifting her glass, she said, “To the best therapy ever invented. Scotch.”
“That therapy will land
you in rehab, nutjob. But I’ll drink to that.” He clinked his against hers and took another gulp. This time it didn’t burn. “How about some of Maw Maw Voorhees’s veggie soup?”
Caro made a face. “I’ll pass. But I found a friend for you.”
“Not this again.”
“She’s perfect—sweet, funny, and has all her teeth. You’ll get along perfectly,” Caro said, finishing the last of her scotch. “Stephen works with her. I’ll need to set it up before he changes the lock and his cell phone number.”
“Not funny.”
“Which one?”
Nick lifted the lid on the soup, sniffed appreciatively, and leveled a flat look at his sister. “Neither.”
“Her name is Montana,” Caro said.
“Dear God.”
“Come on, Nick. You’re not planning on staying single forever, are you?”
Was he? “No. I’ll eventually get around to finding someone. But I have more pressing issues now.”
Caro shrugged. “Look, I’m coming off a busted-up marriage, but I don’t want to be alone for the rest of my life and neither should you. Nothing wrong with keeping an eye out, right?”
“I guess.”
“Now let me tell you about Montana. She’s got so much going for her.”
Eden pulled her windbreaker together at the throat and tried to ignore the drag queens calling out to people walking down Bourbon Street. The rain had stopped only to be followed by a cold wind that obviously didn’t bother the scantily clad performers. Thursday didn’t seem to be the busiest night in the Quarter, but Mardi Gras awaited serious playtime in a few weeks.
“Hey, baby. Come see what I got for you. I’ll let you touch my—”
Eden squeaked at the flagrant description of what she—or was it he?—had under her flouncy, very, very short skirt. Bourbon Street paired raunchy with elegant well. Several doors down from Larry Flynt’s Hustler Club sat a primo restaurant with a maître d’ visible through the brass-trimmed door. Eden slid her hand into her jacket pocket and touched the canister of pepper spray she carried, the thought of it comforting. Surely she wouldn’t need it.
Garish neon blinked, reflected in the numerous puddles taxis pushed through. A few people clumped together, casting annoyed glances at the cars nudging them aside as they sucked down potent brew from funny-looking containers. Other people gawked at the spectacle that was Bourbon Street.
As Eden sidestepped a suspicious puddle, a group of drunk fraternity boys nearly mowed her over.
“Hey, what’s up?” one of them slurred, spilling his cup into the street as he leered at her.
“Excuse me,” she said, pushing past.
“Hey, hey.” Another frat boy, gingham bow tie hanging harmlessly over his unbuttoned collar, stepped in front of her. “You’re pretty. You want something to drink? We got you.”
“No, thanks,” Eden said, lowering her gaze and moving to the side so she could slip past him.
He blocked her, his hot breath smelling of stale beer. “Come on. Come party with us. You’re so hot.”
His gaze slid down her body. She’d worn tight jeans and her black vampy boots, trying to look like someone a speakeasy should hire. Now she wished she’d not played up her looks.
“I said no thank you.” Her voice was firm even as she looked over his shoulder for someone to help her. No one close enough to hear the rowdy group of oversized toddlers. On the corner an older couple stared at Live Nude Girls through a flimsy partition. If she screamed, they might come to her aid. If Pop’s hearing aid was turned up.
Frat boy moved closer, lowering his voice. “Come on. We need a hot girl like you to party with us. Cam here loves to go down on girls. When’s the last time someone went down on you, baby? Come on. You know you want it. I hear Cam’s the best.” The group laughed. Someone slapped him on his back, nearly falling in the process.
Annoyance fled as fear quickened inside Eden. She curled her fingers around the canister. If he touched her, she’d use it. She summoned the girl who’d grown up in Grover’s Park, Morning Glory’s rough neighborhood. She’d handled men who took bigger dumps than the prep standing in front of her in his suede bucks and needlepoint belt. “When you have a little dick, you have to be good at that. Step aside before I introduce you to my pepper spray.”
Frat boy backed up. “Hey, don’t be a bitch. I was just trying to be friendly.”
“Leave her alone, Jace.” One of his friends tugged on his arm. Jace shook his head and mumbled something about uppity whores and lumbered off.
“Jesus,” Eden whispered, relief flooding her. She checked the street sign for the block number and moved forward. From the corner of her eye, she caught the gaze of a large bouncer outside the next club where someone sang a horrendous cover of an Aerosmith hit. He shrugged. She shrugged back.
Assholes. What you gonna do?
Eden pulled a piece of paper from her pocket. The code to enter the speakeasy was 35NOLA#. When she’d called yesterday morning, the hostess had taken her name. Hours later Frenchie Pi, the stage director and choreographer, had called her. When Eden had seen the number, she’d had a huge moment of doubt. Maybe she was doing a stupid thing. She hadn’t dropped out of UNO yet. She could try something else.
But she’d pressed the Answer button.
Frenchie wasn’t a bullshitter. She got down to business. Yes, she needed someone for ensemble, but she wanted someone with experience. Could Eden fax her dance and acting résumé to Gatsby’s? Could she make the midday rehearsal? Could she work from eight p.m. to one a.m. each night? The questions had been endless. Eden answered each one but asked that before she set up an audition she have a chance to visit the club. Frenchie Pi had given her the code, but the directions for getting into the club had been cryptic—go to the corner of Bourbon and Saint Ann. Make a right. Go into the silver phone booth with a penis spray-painted on the double doors. Pick up the phone. Dial the number given.
That was it.
Eden reached the corner, noting the street was darker than the part of Bourbon closer to Canal Street. Rainbow flags hung from several balconies, and loud laughter spilled onto the street from the bar on the corner. She glimpsed a few guys dancing together and got the picture. Eden dutifully made a right, looking cautiously around her. The phone booth sat against an aged brick wall and would have looked innocent but for the spray-painted penis adorning the front.
Just as Eden moved toward the booth, a cab stopped and three laughing women in club clothes spilled out. They looked primed for a night on the town, and as soon as one paid the driver, they all three crowded into the phone booth and pulled the door closed. Eden couldn’t see what they were doing, but seconds later they disappeared.
It was serious Hogwarts stuff.
Looking left then right as if she were about to do something illegal, Eden walked to the booth. The metal edging was cold from the damp night and the glass squeaked as she pulled the door open and stepped inside.
“This is so weird,” she whispered to herself, nerves jangling as she lifted the receiver. Probably should have used some hand sanitizer or something. All those people lifting and dialing. She pressed the number and held her breath. Immediately to her left, a door slid open, elevator style.
Eden stepped inside and entered another world.
The alcove was much like a foyer in a fancy home. Except there was black-and-white honeycomb tile, a crystal chandelier, and a smartly dressed woman sitting behind a high desk. She had a sexy librarian look with cat-eyed glasses and very red lipstick. Her neatly secured auburn hair reminded Eden of Rosemary.
“May I help you?” she asked, perfect eyebrows lifted in question.
“Hi, I’m Eden Voorhees. Here to see Frenchie.”
The woman smiled. “One does not merely see Frenchie, but she told me you’d be stopping by tonight. A prospect for ensemble, huh?” The woman’s eyes moved over Eden in an assessing way. Eden staunched her need to wipe her hands on her jeans. “Follow me. I do
n’t have a table free, but the stools at the bar provide great viewing. You’re in luck because Sista Shayla is about to go on.”
Eden had no clue who Sista Shayla was, but she delivered a smile. “Awesome.”
Redhead pressed a button. “I’m Marla, by the way. I’m one of the hostesses with the mostesses.” A panel slid open, and a fusion of jazz and hip-hop music welcomed Eden to Gatsby’s.
Eden wasn’t sure what she’d expected, but it hadn’t been what was revealed to her through the entrance.
Stepping through time.
The room seemed to be divided into three sections with an ornate rococo-style bar on either side of a huge warehouse space. Round tabletops with ivory tablecloths and flickering candles dominated the main part of the room, and a large dance floor stretched before the seating area all the way to a huge stage. An orchestra pit with a horn section sat on one side of the stage and a platform with a Fazioli grand piano on the adjoining. The honeycomb tile continued into the space, and a gargantuan chandelier hung from a rough-hewn wooden beam. It was as if Glenn Dorsey had a baby with a hipster. Art Deco, midcentury modern, and French Regency exploded and somehow looked . . . perfect.
“Wow,” Eden breathed.
“I know, right?” Marla said with a ghost of a smile. “It’s the usual reaction. I’m going to put you at Mike’s bar. He’ll get you something to drink and fend off the sleazy guys.”