by Karen White
I watched Beau, his finger now protruding through the first hole he’d made in the hat, and who was now busily scratching through another. “Yes. Sure. I can do that. When?”
There was a brief pause, making me squirm. “Actually, she’s here now and would like to meet with you as soon as possible. I know you’re staying across the street from the store. Would you be able to be here in fifteen minutes?”
I glanced at the clock, then back at Beau. “She’s there now?”
A small, tinkling laugh came through the phone. “As I said, Mrs. Guidry is a longtime customer and friend. She called me at home last night, too late to call you, and asked me to set this up as early as possible.”
My hand froze on the phone. “Mrs. Guidry?”
“Yes. She’s from an old New Orleans family, so you might recognize the name. She’s apparently quite the fan of Mr. Holt and is intrigued by your family connection to the artist.”
“She’s there now? In your store?”
“Yes. Can you be here in fifteen minutes?”
I forced my voice to stay calm, my gaze resting on Beau as I spoke. “Can she come here to the hotel lobby instead?”
After only the briefest of pauses, Nancy Mayer said, “I’m sure that won’t be a problem.”
“Great. Then give me twenty, and I’ll meet her downstairs at the front desk.”
We said good-bye, and I hung up, my thoughts spiraling, the questions reverberating around my brain. As if on autopilot, I quickly washed my face and brushed my teeth, then threw on the same clothes I’d worn the previous day, because they were still hanging on a chair back.
I dug in my purse and found a candy bar I’d bought in New York before we left, and handed it to Beau. “You get to have chocolate for breakfast. How great is that?”
Beau’s face brightened as he looked up at me, a rare smile showing a missing lower front tooth. I rumpled his hair, making a note to myself to make sure that his lunch would be healthy. Kneeling in front of him, I said, “Beau, I need to go downstairs for a few moments to talk with somebody, but I need you to stay here by yourself. Is that all right?”
His smile faded and his thumb found its way to his mouth. Beau slowly nodded.
“Good.” I wrote my cell phone number down in large numbers on the bedside notepad and tucked it next to the phone. “I’ll have my phone on, so if you need anything I want you to call me, all right? You have to push the number nine first, so just punch in all the numbers on the phone just like I’ve written them.” I waited for him to study the numbers and the paper before returning his attention to me. “I’ll turn on some cartoons for you to watch, and I want you to sit on your bed and eat your candy bar until I get back. If somebody knocks on the door, do not answer it. I’ll put a sign on the door so the cleaning people won’t open it. But you stay put until I come back; do you understand? And I promise that I won’t be gone long.”
“Okay, Julie,” he said, then returned to sucking hard on his thumb. I watched him sitting there in his SpongeBob pajamas, his mother’s red hat pressed against his face. I didn’t feel right about leaving him, but he’d never been a defiant child, even as a toddler. He’d always seemed content to listen to his mother. Besides, I convinced myself, the greater danger could be waiting for him downstairs.
Touching his cheek, I said, “Thanks for being a big boy. I promise you that things will get better.” Because they can’t get any worse. Standing, I tousled his hair again, then flipped on the television to Nickelodeon. Putting my purse on my shoulder and tucking the room key in the outside pocket, I kissed his forehead then placed the Do Not Disturb sign on the outside doorknob as I pulled it closed behind me.
My palms were sweaty as the elevator descended much more slowly than I remembered. It opened on the lobby floor and had almost closed again before I could make myself move forward.
I would have recognized Aimee Guidry even without knowing her name from the pictures Monica had made from her stories, her words the flesh and bones of the people who came to live in my head. Mrs. Guidry was what had once been called a handsome woman, with strong features and a wide forehead. I imagined she’d been beautiful when she was younger, her once red hair now faded to a muted yellow, her fair skin now covered with a web of fine wrinkles. But her cornflower blue eyes were sharp and clear, the one hand visible sitting on top of her cane strong and capable, the cane the only nod toward her seventy-two years.
My tentative smile faded completely as the man standing next to Mrs. Guidry with his back toward me turned around. His face registered the same surprise I felt.
“You?” he said, his voice harsh.
I was unprepared with a response and stood there silently, wondering why I was hoping he wouldn’t notice that I was wearing the same clothes he’d seen me in the day before.
Ignoring her grandson, Aimee Guidry held out her free hand. “You must be Julie Holt. I’m Aimee Guidry, and this is my grandson, Trey Guidry.”
I took her hand and she squeezed gently, her skin like polished paper. Trey kept his hands at his sides, and I made no mention that I knew exactly who they were.
“I hope you don’t mind my bringing someone else along, but I can’t drive myself anymore, and Trey offered to bring me.” She indicated a sofa and two chairs on the other end of the lobby by the front door. “Shall we?”
I nodded and allowed Mrs. Guidry, with her free hand tucked into the crook of Trey’s elbow, to lead me to the seating area.
After Mrs. Guidry and Trey settled themselves on the couch, and I sat in one of the chairs, Mrs. Guidry leaned forward, preparing to speak, but Trey stilled her with a hand on her arm.
“Where did you get that painting? Is that why you were at our house yesterday?”
Mrs. Guidry, whose eyes were guarded but not unkind, interjected. “I was on my way back from the beauty parlor and I saw the painting in the store window. You can’t imagine the surprise—”
Trey interrupted her. “Did you know the painting is stolen property? ”
“What?” I made a move to stand, but Aimee held up her hand.
“Please wait.” She frowned at her grandson. “I’m sorry. Trey’s a lawyer, and I think he’s too used to cross-examining hostile witnesses.”
I settled back in my seat. “Look, I had no idea it was stolen. It was . . . given to me. By a good friend.”
“By whom? ” Trey sat on the edge of his seat, his hands on his thighs as if he were ready to spring.
I looked from a hopeful face to an angry one, knowing that what I was about to tell them would change them forever. I glanced toward the window that showed an outside that had turned a greenish gray, the wind blowing the hair of passersby. A storm was coming. I met their gazes again. “By Monica Guidry.”
Aimee’s hand clutched at Trey’s. “You’ve seen her? Is she here?”
I shook my head. “No. I’m sorry. That’s what I came to tell you yesterday. But I . . .” I couldn’t continue. There was no easy way to admit to cowardice. Taking a deep breath, I said, “Monica died nearly three months ago. In New York.”
Aimee let out a soft gasp as her hand went to her mouth. Trey reached for her, and she placed her face against his shoulder. I looked away, unable to witness the one thing I’d been denied all these years. “I’m sorry,” I said, feeling so stupidly inadequate.
Trey’s voice was thick when he spoke. “I’ll need some proof. A death certificate. Something.”
I nodded, then slid a business card from my purse. “This is the name of Monica’s lawyer, who took care of everything. I’m sure he’ll be able to get you what you need.”
Aimee lifted her head, her eyes stricken. “We’ll want to bring her body back, too. She needs to come home.”
Trey snatched the card from my hand. “Grandmother, we don’t know . . .”
She squeezed his hand, silencing him. “Thank you, Julie, for telling us.”
I clasped my hands together. “But the painting. It wasn’t stolen. Monica w
ould never have taken something that didn’t belong to her. And she left it to me, along with River Song.”
Trey looked at me with annoyed surprise, but it was the small smile on Aimee’s lips that I found more intriguing. I was about to tell them that they could verify my claims with Monica’s lawyer, but stopped when I saw Trey’s face go slack as he seemed to catch sight of something behind my shoulder.
I followed his gaze and spotted Beau in the middle of the lobby. He was barefoot and still wore his SpongeBob pajamas that were now smeared, along with his face, with melted chocolate. He clutched the ratty hat in his right hand, and as he realized that people were watching him, he slowly raised his thumb to his mouth, inadvertently making him look even more the orphan than he actually was.
“Beau,” I said, covering the distance between us as quickly as I could. Ignoring the chocolate covering him, I lifted him into my arms. “Why did you come down here? I told you to stay in the room.”
He gazed solemnly at me through thick lashes and with eyes that were disarmingly like his uncle’s. “I got chocolate on me and I needed a washcloth but I couldn’t reach it. So I went to find you so you could get it for me.”
I closed my eyes, feeling nausea creep into my stomach, and squeezed him tighter. Dear God. How could I have been so stupid? “Oh, Beau. I’m glad you found me. But promise me that you’ll never, never go anywhere without me again. Promise me.”
He placed his palms on my cheeks, mashing the red hat against one of them. “I promise, Julie.” He patted my cheeks as if trying to comfort me, and it almost made me laugh. Almost.
“Beau?”
We both turned to Trey, who’d moved to stand next to us. The boy and the man stared at each other with identical eyes, their hair almost the same shade of dark blond except that Trey’s had gold streaks through his, as if he spent a lot of time outdoors.
Aimee stood and approached us. “This is Monica’s boy, isn’t it?” She reached up a trembling hand to touch him, but Beau buried his head in my neck.
I shifted the heavy child on my hip. “He’s been through a lot lately. He’s normally very outgoing.”
Beau lifted his head and held out his hand, spreading all of his fingers. “I’m five,” he said before sticking his head back into the crook of my neck.
The softness that had gathered around Trey’s eyes and mouth as he’d studied Beau disappeared as soon as he turned back to me. “Let me guess. Monica gave Beau to you, too, along with the stolen painting and a house.”
I closed my eyes, trying to keep my temper in check, if only for Beau, who’d been traumatized enough already. “Look, I didn’t ask for any of it, and I’m not going to stand here and argue with you about whether what Monica did was right or wrong. Right now, I need to get Beau cleaned up and dressed, and try to figure out what to do next.”
“Don’t even think you’re taking him out of our sight.”
I didn’t think I’d ever been angrier or more exhausted, or more lost. Beau stiffened in my arms, and I knew he could feel my tension. Taking a deep breath, I spoke quietly and with measured words. “I loved Monica like a sister, and I miss her every day. What I’m trying to do here is make sense of her last wishes and do the best I can. If you would stop being a lawyer for one minute, you might be able to see the situation I’m in, and that Beau is in, and give us a damned break.”
Quiet clapping brought our attention to Aimee, who was trying her best to clap with her cane still clutched in one hand. “Brava, Julie. Finally someone who isn’t intimidated by Trey. I’m thinking Monica made the right choice.”
I resisted smiling back, still unsure who my allies were.
Aimee continued. “Please come back with us to the house so we can discuss all of this in a civilized manner.” She touched my arm, her hand weightless. “Please. I loved Monica, and I’ve just learned that I’ll never see her again.” She looked at Beau. “But this is her son, and I want to get to know him. And I want him to know about his mother.” Her blue eyes looked candidly at me. “Please come with us. There’s so much we need to know.”
Marveling once again at the inevitability that had been my life for so long, I nodded, my choices narrowed down to zero. “All right. Give me about an hour, and we’ll be there. I know the address.”
“Thank you.” Aimee squeezed my arm, then dropped her hand.
I began walking toward the elevator. “We’ll be as quick as we can.”
I’d almost reached the elevator when Trey called out, “You’re wrong about one thing, you know.”
I turned and looked at him, my eyebrow raised in question.
“You don’t own the beach house property. I have the deed and can show you.”
I felt anger stir again in my chest. “What do you mean? Monica left me the keys via her lawyer, with instructions that I was to take ownership.”
He shook his head. “Half of it belongs to me. Our grandfather gave it to Monica and me. To both of us.”
Then why is it in ruins? I wanted to ask, but held back. Unlike him, I refused to rush to judgment, to assume things even when all evidence to the contrary seemed nonexistent.
Our eyes locked, and it seemed to me that he was goading me on, provoking me to ask the last question that still lingered, unspoken. Finally, after a long moment, I said, “Did you ever look for her?”
His eyes widened for a second, allowing me to see the same hurt and anger I saw in my own eyes every time I bothered to look in a mirror. “Every day. Not a single day has gone by since she left that I haven’t searched for her.”
I held his gaze for a moment longer before turning again toward the elevator, wondering what it was like to have finally found the one thing he’d been looking for. I stepped into the elevator and pushed the button for our floor, watching Monica’s brother and grandmother slowly disappear as the doors shut between us.
CHAPTER 5
Storm warning: A warning of 1-minute sustained surface winds of... 55 mph . . . or greater, either predicted or occurring, not directly associated with tropical cyclones.
—NATIONAL HURRICANE CENTER
I drove slowly, hoping my thoughts would catch up with me, and trying to remember something Monica had once told me—something about the Mississippi River having a memory of its old banks, before man tried to change her, and how every once in a while the great river tried to reclaim what was once hers.
I passed by sweeping front porches, turrets, and cast-iron balconies, all in various stages of either reconstruction or disrepair. The mixed scents of fresh wood and stagnant decay permeated the streets, a unique perfume for a city I couldn’t easily define. New Orleans was a symbol of both Monica’s home and her banishment, but as I drove again to the house on First Street, I could see it only as my own last chance.
It had taken me almost two hours of getting ready and procrastinating before I finally found myself parking the van once again on First Street. Trey was waiting for us in a rocking chair as we closed the garden gate and walked toward the porch. He stood, his face not completely hiding his surprise that we’d actually shown up. Slow fans turned above our heads, wafting the green and ripe smells of the garden toward us.
Trey saved his smile for Beau. “Hey, buddy. I’m Trey.”
He looked at me as if waiting for my permission to say more.
I knelt in front of Beau. “He’s your uncle Trey. Your mother’s brother.”
Beau looked confused, as I imagined anyone would look after being told for the first time that his mother even had a brother. The little boy glanced from one adult face to the other to make sure we weren’t lying. Finally, he said, “Oh.”
Keeping one hand in his pocket, Trey lifted his other toward the boy, hesitating just a moment before lightly tousling his hair. “Your mama loved her ice cream, and I’m betting you love it, too.”
Beau dug his face into my leg, then nodded.
“Great. Because I’ve got some waiting for you in the kitchen. I thought you could go eat it
in there while Julie and I have a little talk.”
Remembering the candy bar Beau had eaten for breakfast, I said, “Actually, he needs lunch first. Something healthy.”
“I can do that. But definitely ice cream, too.” He winked at Beau and opened the tall, wood door, then stepped back, indicating for me and Beau to walk in ahead of him.
I was aware of polished wood floors, sparkling chandeliers, and glowing dark furniture. Halfway into the enormous foyer a grand staircase with a balcony landing rose on the right, a ten-foot gilded mirror echoing it on the opposite wall. A pair of Queen Anne chairs were ensconced in an alcove made from the curve of the stairs, and what appeared to be children’s artwork was framed in elaborate gold frames on the wall inside the door, adding an unexpected warmth to the space, and doing nothing to detract from the grand paintings on the other walls. An assortment of various pottery pieces sat displayed on a hall table near the door.
Without thinking I stepped closer to get a better look, recognizing the almost iridescent glaze and impossibly thin walls of the small bowls and pitcher. “Are these George Ohr pieces?”
Trey stood next to me. “Yes. ‘The Mad Potter of Biloxi.’ You’ve heard of him?”
“Of course. He’s well-known in the art world. Besides being an art history major, I worked at an auction house in New York. We had a few pieces come in from time to time. They’re beautiful.”
“They’re not my taste, but Aimee and Monica loved his stuff and acquired these over the years.”
A petite woman with completely gray hair, somewhere in her fifties, wearing a denim skirt and a T-shirt, emerged from a door in the rear of the foyer.
Trey introduced her. “This is Kathy Wolf. She takes care of my grandmother and the house. She also makes a mean pimento cheese sandwich and is very generous in her ice-cream scoops. I think she can set you up in the kitchen, Beau. How does that sound?”
“What’s pimento cheese?” Beau and I asked in unison.