by Tina DeSalvo
“Beau, I told you I couldn’t go with you.”
“Couldn’t or won’t?”
“Same thing.”
“Jewell, it’s just dinner and conversation. I think we need to talk without the distraction of our families. We need to resolve some issues, figure out how we’re going to move forward.”
She lifted a brow and crossed her arms over her chest, causing the fabric of the thin robe to tighten so Beau could see the outline of her breasts. He shifted in his seat and forced himself to glance away. He looked down at an antiques magazine on a side table. It was much less interesting than Jewell in a robe that barely covered her breasts. Dammit.
“Move forward?” She sighed. “Are we talking about what has been happening between us personally or professionally?”
“Yes,” he said right away. “I won’t push on the personal part. That, frankly, isn’t something I really like to chat about anyway. It’s chick conversation.” She nodded. “The work stuff, we need a plan of action and some organization. I need to know where you’re heading with your expanding work with other family members and with your investigation.”
She paused for a minute, her eyes giving the telltale look that meant she was analyzing what he said. “Okay. Not that I think most of it is any of your business. I agree we need to discuss work here. I’m at a point where some decisions need to be made about moving the inventory, and Elli said to work it out with you.” She shook her head, a little humor in her eyes. “No chick conversation, though.”
“Okay. Go get dressed. Please.”
***
Thirty minutes later, Jewell and Beau were seated in a cozy red faux-leather booth next to a large picture window, facing the parking lot of the Do Drop Inn restaurant. It pleased Beau that she’d chosen a dress instead of her usual jeans and work shirt, which he’d half-expected her to do. The dress material was like one of his favorite denim shirts. It was soft, faded, but totally comfy. On her the color and fabric looked like high-end designer fashion. It may have been because it fit her like a glove. Or it may have been because when set against her skin and hair, the pale blue made her look very natural and sexy. He was surprised to find this look so appealing when he’d thought he preferred a more tailored, sophisticated, put-together style. In fact, he especially liked the way she’d left a few of the top buttons undone to reveal just a bit of the swell of her full breasts. He liked the way the buttons were left undone from just above her ankle to well above her knee to let the dress split open with each step she took, showing her shapely legs and the funky rubber boots that were shaped like cowboy boots and painted like red bandanas. As great as she looked in her dress and even in her crazy boots, his mind kept going back to that damn tattoo low on her hip and her crazy sexy feet.
Those images he couldn’t get out of his head.
“What would you like to drink?” he asked when the waitress approached the table to take their order.
She looked toward the long, walnut-stained bar in front of them. “I’ll take whatever local beer you have on tap,” she said, pleasing him yet again. He liked a lot of the finer things in life, expensive cars, clothes, but he enjoyed a good cold beer and local food.
“I’ll have the same. And bring us a dozen oysters, half raw and half charbroiled.” He looked at her. “Is that okay? They have good, cold, salty oysters here.”
“Yes. Sounds great. It’s a month ending in R, so we should have oysters, right?”
“Yes, indeed," he smiled.
The band took the stage with guitars, fiddle, rubboard, and accordion. Jewell looked at them and smiled.
“I know you love music. I think you’ll enjoy Nonc Noon and the Bon Amis.”
She laughed easily. “Uncle Noon and Good Friends. I haven’t heard of them. It’s always nice discovering new bands, though.”
“The man on the rubboard.” —Beau motioned with his head toward the stage— “That’s Jude. He’s my third cousin. His momma is a Bienvenu. He’ll be bringing the rubboard to the tailgating Thursday. Big John will bring his accordion and his daughter Rachel will bring her git-tar,” he said, purposely mispronouncing guitar.
“Mimi will love it.”
“And you? Will you love it?”
She shrugged. “I have to work, Beau. I’ll pop in to be polite.”
He shook his head. “I guess that means you’ll make me miss it too.” He frowned and pointed a finger at her and then to himself. “No culling through the attic or barn or anywhere on this property without me, remember?”
She rolled her eyes. “With you always breathing down my neck, how could I?” she murmured. Then, she spoke louder. “I remember. It’s our agreement.”
“Yes, it is.”
The waitress put the beers on the table in tall sweaty glasses with just a bit of foam at the top. Beau lifted his glass and held it out to her. She tapped hers to his, making a heavy clanging sound.
“To making money on old junk,” he said.
She laughed. “To finding loving homes for historic treasures.” She took a sip. “And making money doing it.”
Jewell looked at her menu. “Just so we don’t have that awkward moment at the end of dinner when the bill comes, I want to clarify now that we’re going Dutch.”
Argue now or argue at the end of the meal. He decided to wait until the end of the meal. Beau took a sip of his beer, noticed how the amber light from the single bowling ball-sized bulb hanging above them made her skin glow in what looked like the soft focus he’d seen used on movie stars in films. Her skin was flawless, except for the bruise on her cheek.
“You been icing your face?” He reached across the table and gently touched her cheek. She tucked her chin, looking shy, but not pulling away. “It’s not as swollen as it was earlier today.”
“No. I just heal quickly. And I put on a little makeup to cover it so everyone in the restaurant wouldn’t think you beat me up.” She lifted her cold beer and rested it against her cheek.
“Ah, so considerate, Boots.” He laughed. “I hate to bust your bubble, but I’d guess most everyone in the restaurant knows about you running into Tante Izzy’s truck. She’s our resident celebrity, so to speak. If something happens to her or her stuff, everyone is talking about it. Since you’re the new person of interest in town, the combination of you and Tante Izzy is just too tempting not to gossip about.”
“I hate being the subject of gossip.”
“You say that like it’s happened before.” He knew it had. It seemed like a good opportunity to open the subject he wanted to talk to her about. Her legal problems. He really needed to see if he could get a good feel for her guilt or innocence.
She shrugged. “You know who my mother is.”
He nodded. “Yeah, but you look like you’re talking about something more than that.”
The waitress put the oysters on the table, but Jewell didn’t reach for them. She was looking at him in that thoughtful way she did when she was trying to figure out what she wanted to do. Beau slid a few raw and charbroiled oysters on a plate and handed the plate to Jewell. “Eat up.” Then he smiled and repeated it in French, “Mange.”
She added a little horseradish, ketchup and hot sauce on the side of the plate and mixed it together to make a cocktail sauce in the same way all locals did.
Beau was formulating his opening question when the band started to play. The first song of their set was one he’d heard on the radio for the first time the day his mom, Bernice, and his dad, Ronald, rescued Jackson and him from the hellhole where they lived. He’d loved the Cleveland Crochet’s Cajun Zydeco song, “Sugar Bee,” ever since. The questions could wait. The night was young. He stood and extended his hand to Jewell.
“Let’s dance, chère. We both need to have a little fun.”
She shrugged. “More than you know.” She nodded. “Besides, I can use the exercise.” She took his hand and walked with him to the dance floor. Five other couples were already dancing. Three of them were doing the tradition
al Cajun two-step.
“I know you’ve got moves, Boots, I’ve seen your solo dance in the attic,” he teased, spinning her to face him. “Do you know the Cajun jitterbug?’
“No, but if you can lead, I can follow.”
“Oh, I can lead.” Beau started moving her across the dance floor, keeping the steps Bernice had taught him simple and in time to the beat of the music. “You’re a natural,” he said, meaning it, twirling her under his arm as they moved in easy grace across the wooden floor.
“Not a natural,” she laughed. “Dance lessons. Lots of them since I was three. My mother insisted. She had some crazy, twisted idea that I’d go into the business with her or into the entertainment industry and I’d need to know how to dance. She didn’t care if I made an A on my history exam, but she cared if I earned the solo for the dance recital.”
“Ouch.” Beau twirled her one way and then reversed the direction. She smiled and followed, keeping time with the music and him.
Beau pulled her tighter against him, her dress wrapping around his legs. He enjoyed the feel of her body moving in rhythm with his. The way her back and hip muscles tightened and eased under his hands as she dipped and swayed was so damn sensual. There were no awkward moments of new partners trying to figure out what the other would do. They just flowed easily with one another as if they’d been dancing together for years.
Beau lost track of how many songs they danced to as their eyes met and held. The happy Cajun beat simply flowed through them.
Then the music stopped. Jewell looked up at him, bit her bottom lip, and made a silly face. “If the band insists on taking a break, I guess we should too.” She brushed aside a few strands of hair that had slipped from her braid onto her cheeks.
“That was fun.” He guided her back to their booth. “I like to dance, and I can see you do too.” He kissed her on the cheek. “Thank you. I enjoyed that. You’re a very good dancer.”
“Only because you are.”
He held up two fingers to the waitress to bring two more beers. “Are you hungry?”
She nodded. “What do you recommend?”
Beau tucked a stray strand of her long, dark hair behind her ear. “I think you’d like…” His voice trailed off as something, or more accurately—someone—caught his attention from outside the window. What in the hell was he doing here? Beau jumped out of his seat. “Jewell, stay right here. I’ll be back.” He ran outside.
Beau had spotted his client, Stanley Boudreaux, as he drove up to the Do Drop Inn restaurant in a brand new fire-engine-red BMW. It was the same model as the one Jewell had wrecked just the day before. Dealership stickers were still on the rear window. He’d driven it with a suspended driver’s license after his third DWI. Beau was furious.
“Hey, Beau,” Stanley said, staggering toward the front door that Beau had just exited. He was dressed in the same clothes he'd worn at their meeting that afternoon. Khaki slacks and camouflage golf shirt with his seafood processing business logo embroidered above the left breast pocket. “Long time, no see.” He laughed, smoothing his thinning salt and pepper hair. Damn it, he smelled of heavy alcohol and self-destruction.
“Are you kidding me? You’re driving intoxicated with a suspended license.” Beau couldn’t believe how stupid this guy was. He grabbed him by his thick biceps and pulled him off to the side, away from the door and the curious onlookers. Stanley protested, cursed being manhandled. Although in his late fifties, Stanley was fit and muscular from working out at the gym every day. Being drunk made him uncoordinated, though.
“What the hell are you doing?” he asked, stumbling over his words.
“Trying to keep you from being thrown back in jail.” Beau let go of his arm and faced him.
“I’m sorry to hear about your Beamer.” Stanley looked at the car he’d just illegally driven. His comment was meant to be a slam. He wasn’t sorry at all. “Should’ve told you earlier. You know, once you’ve wrecked your first car, it doesn’t hurt as much for the next one.”
“I didn’t wreck it,” Beau said, knowing if he’d heard of the wreck, he’d heard the story of Jewell rear-ending Tante Izzy’s truck. “Stanley, you can’t drive. You don’t have a license. We went over all of this today. I thought you understood.” Beau knew he was wasting his breath talking to a drunken man. He knew it much too well.
“And I explained to you that the DA and I are fishing buddies.” He looked toward the door as someone exited. He tried to whistle. Beau turned. It was Jewell. He motioned to her to stay where she was.
“Hey, look at me. I’m talking to you.” He jabbed his finger at Stanley’s chest. “Your fishing buddy’s hands are tied. The fact that he couldn’t get you out of your mandatory two-day jail sentence for refusing a Breathalyzer and blood test should tell you something.” He didn’t turn around, but he sensed that Jewell had walked closer to them. It annoyed him, and he was already annoyed that she hadn’t listened to him and had come outside.
“Stanley, you’ve known the law since your first DWI. It’s why you refused the test. There are new laws. I’ve explained them to you. Louisiana’s implied consent law states very clearly that if you’re arrested for probable cause for driving while intoxicated, then you must consent to taking a chemical test of your blood, breath or urine to determine your blood alcohol content. If you refuse, which you did because you knew you’d fail it, there is an automatic two-day jail sentence and suspension of your license.” Stanley made a snapping hand gesture indicating that he thought Beau was talking too much.
Yeah, what did he expect trying to reason with a drunk? He should’ve known better than to do that.
“Hello, beautiful,” Stanley said to Jewell, ignoring Beau. Beau’s ears burned from his anger, first for his flirting attention to Jewell, and second for not taking his DWI seriously. “You’re even prettier than what people are saying and they’re saying you are movie star pretty.”
“Damn it, Stan. We’re talking here.”
“I spoke to the DA after I left your office.”
Beau stood in silence for a moment. He needed to calm down and deal with his defiant client professionally. “Bad move,” he told him, keeping his voice even. “I’m your attorney. Let me handle this. Ex parte conversations will cause more damage than good.”
“The DA and I go way back,” Stanley snorted. “Why wouldn’t I chat with an old pal?” He looked at Jewell and stood taller. Stanley was married with children, but he was posturing to impress her. “I’m a multimillionaire,” he said, speaking more loudly for her to hear. “I have power.” He stumbled over his words.
When Stanley started to make excuses for his behavior the night he got caught driving drunk leaving the Lucky Cajun Bar, Beau raised his hand to signal him to stop talking. “You were caught red-handed. The charges will hold. This is your third DWI. The law and judicial system are uncompromising on the three-strikes-and-you’re-out policy.”
“I’m not going to jail or picking up litter on the side of the road in an orange jumpsuit.” He made a fist and punched it into the air. Beau moved so his body was fully between Stanley and Jewell. He wanted her to get the hell away from Stanley’s volatility. His temper was escalating. Beau recognized the look of it in the eyes before it manifested any other way. He wanted to tell Jewell to go inside, but his client was shouting now about how he’d paid taxes in the parish and had rights. He was dangerous, and anything could send him from a verbal tirade into a physical one—including hearing him sending Jewell away. “Stan, let’s talk about this tomorrow.” Beau tried to use his voice to calm him.
Stanley continued ranting. “Talk to this,” he shouted, showing him his hand and laughing as though it was extremely funny.
Beau shook his head, tried to reach behind him to urge Jewell to leave. “Go inside, Jewell.”
“Are you chasing my girlfriend away?” Stanley shouted. “I want her to stay. Tell her how my employees need me. And I can get a good deal because of it. You want to hear that, right
, honey?”
“We’ll talk tomorrow, Stanley.” Beau kept his eyes on his client. “You have an audience.” He motioned toward the bar windows where the patrons were gathered, watching to see what would happen.
“I don’t give a crap about them.” Stanley bowed toward the window. “They can’t hear us anyway. Talk now. What’s the deal?”
Beau hesitated but knew not telling him the deal would only agitate him more. If Jewell wasn’t there, he wouldn’t give a damn about that. Since she was, he did care about keeping her safe from the hot-headed drunken fool.
“I can negotiate a deal for community service, no jail time, and probation if you agree to enter an inpatient alcohol treatment facility.”
Stanley started cursing, throwing up his hands. “I don’t need no jerk-off alcohol treatment. I’m not an alcoholic.”
Beau stole a glance over his shoulder to Jewell. Her eyes were wide, worried. “Get the hell out of here, Jewell.” She didn’t move. She took her phone out of her pocket. Damn stubborn woman. He looked at Stanley. “Take the deal. Go to rehab. Hell, go to rehab somewhere expensive with a pretty beach.”
Stanley looked at Beau, two bloodshot orbs under tired lids. “I don’t think you tried hard enough to fight this,” he said, his voice a low growl. “It’s because your parents were the town drunks. Your dad served time for taking advantage of people. You want them to go to rehab, not me. You had a miserable life living down the bayou in a stinking shack because of them. I’m not a lowlife drunk like them…”
Beau’s hands balled in fists. “It’s the booze talking now, you ass.” He spoke through clenched teeth. “The smell of it is oozing from your pores. It’s a smell I’ve known my whole life. Just like your kids now know. Stop the damn madness for them. You’re ruining your kids’ lives every bit as much as my parents did mine. Yeah, I wanted them to get sober, to go to rehab. That ship has passed. My mom is dead—she drank herself to death and my father’s in prison. You want that? Any of it?” He didn’t give Stanley a chance to answer, he had more to say. “I’m not transferring my crap with them to you, you idiot. Get your act together before you kill yourself or worse, before you kill someone else and really destroy your family.”