by Linda Joyce
“Man, modesty don’t become you. You got it goin’ on.”
“No promises.” Rex waved goodbye, then lifted the latch on the decorative wrought iron gate. The irony of the symbolism made him chuckle. It was created to keep some out and to keep others in. Did he have any right to want to stay in the house? Kayla, on the other hand, wanted out—a decision he feared she would regret in years to come.
Crossing the threshold brought a rush of uncertainty. What incentive could he offer his sister? If he invested in the business, he couldn’t afford to buy out her half of the house. If he refused to invest in the business, he’d be destroying his promise to his mother, and Kayla could be out of a job.
His sister had never made life easy for him.
“I’m home,” he shouted, entering the foyer.
No response. Kayla was at the bridal show. Papa…buried. Momma gone for years. Not even an insouciant cat to greet him.
Rex called Kayla on her cell phone.
“Rex?” Kayla answered.
“I’m calling to let you know I’ll be in to help you with the rush tonight.”
“No.”
“What do you mean, no?”
“You gave me a month on my own. A month to prove myself. I still have another week. Back the hell up. Don’t show your face in my kitchen unless you want to come in after midnight and clean.”
Rex remained silent for a few breaths.
“Rex?”
“You’re right, little sister. You have another week. I’ve almost finished going over the books. Just know when your week is over, the first thing we’re cutting from the budget is the singer.”
“No.”
Letting go of an exasperated breath, Rex asked, “What do you mean, no? This reminds me of when you first started talking. ‘No’ was your favorite word. Are we regressing?”
“Not only no, but fuck no. Don’t be a jerk-wad. Just because you run an operation in New York City, don’t think you can bring your salsa down here and toss it around. We’ll talk in one week. And by talk, I mean, we’ll discuss everything and come to a mutual consensus. Nothing changes until then. Arceneau’s is not a dictatorship with you in control.”
Rex sighed. Well, maybe it needs to be if you want to succeed.
“I’ll be by later tonight,” he told her, mostly to aggravate her, but he’d respect their agreement. “Catch you then.”
He ended the call with her cussing at him and shouting something about Nola Belle. He would get to the bottom of the inconsistent accounting, but why was Kayla willing to bleed the business dry for that singer?
The beautiful Nola Belle couldn’t be all that.
Chapter 3
Saturday morning, Nola trudged the block from her apartment to the coffee shop. The temperature was warm, yet the humidity low. A perfect spring day. Two days down and two days to go on the bridal show.
“Hey, girl. You’re here early,” the cashier called out as Nola entered the old house. The woman hollered to a barista, “Skinny decaf mocha.”
“Thanks.” Nola pushed her sunglasses on top of her head.
“You weren’t here for the last two days. What’s up? I set my calendar and clock by you. You’re here Monday, Wednesday, and Friday at nine. Never on a Saturday before noon. It’s only eight. In the morning. You know that, right?”
Chuckling, Nola said, “I’m that predictable?”
“Yes. Especially about the skinny, the decaf, and the mocha. Anything else for you today?”
“Any ham and cheese croissants left? I need one to go. Headed back to Fleur de Lis again today.”
“I hope to make it over there tomorrow. I can’t wait to see your family home. And, if I’m lucky, someday Mr. Right is going to marry me there.” The woman clasped her hands to her chest, closed her eyes, and smiled dreamily.
“Better than Mr. Wrong.” Nola pulled a chair out and sat at the nearest table.
“Oh, I already had him. He’s long gone. I’m holding out for Mr. Next-To-Perfect.”
Nola smiled. So she wasn’t the only one waiting for someone special. Her family repeatedly accused her of being too picky. Attraction was a funny thing… Her thoughts drifted once again to the man with the blue-gray eyes who made her heart beat in 12/8 time. He set her imagination running wild. Images of them flipped through her mind like a kaleidoscope—walking along the Mississippi River holding hands under a full moon while musicians played, her singing for him and only him in a dimly lit club, and then sharing breakfast at a café while they read the Sunday paper together.
What would he be like in bed?
Unexpectedly, her body thrummed with excitement.
She shook her head to ground herself in reality. He was just too much.
Her sister had told her to flirt more, and now appeared to be in cahoots with her mother about finding her a man. She planned to avoid them both until her three p.m. show by hanging out with Remy, Biloxi’s oldest boy, who preferred going flying with Uncle Linc than fishing on the bank of the Pearl River. Her nine-year-old nephew agreed to spend time with her only after she promised to let him help her pick out a new kayak for Fleur de Lis.
“How are things with the band?” the cashier asked, interrupting Nola’s thoughts. “My nephew has a crush on you. Says you sing like an angel.”
“Well, I don’t know about that…but he’s learned a lot in three months. I’m so proud that he’s practicing.”
“He and a few of his friends have a corner staked out on Royal Street. They play for the tourists. Make a few dollars. Here’s your heated croissant. Coffee up in a minute.” The woman turned to take the order of a newly arrived customer.
Pulling out her phone, Nola checked a website selling band uniforms. When she’d been in marching band, uniforms were not even a second thought. She wore what she was told. Now she poured over pictures of coats, bibbers, hats, and gauntlets. The drum major would need a cape and gloves in addition to the rest of the uniform. Did they need spats? Special touches and details on a uniform helped set a band apart from the rest, but what could she afford? Mentally adding in her head, she counted the price at nearly three-hundred dollars a student. Multiply that by thirty…the cost was staggering.
With coffee in hand, she pointed the rental car east and headed back to Fleur de Lis. Rolling down the windows, she enjoyed the wind in her hair and the quiet of no radio.
Her cell rang, and she pushed the button on the steering wheel for the hands-free speakerphone in the car. “Hello?”
“Miss Dutrey, I’m Allen Sikes. Chef Allen. You’ve probably seen me on TV. It’s come to my attention that the space you’re leasing for your band may be available in the next thirty days.”
“What?”
“Is there any possibility that you could vacate sooner? I could make it worth your while, financially, of course. I would like to be up and running with my cooking school as soon as possible.”
“Mr. Sikes. Chef Sikes, I have no idea what you’re talking about. I have a one-year lease of the premises with an option for a second year.”
“So I hear, but I also understand that you’re having financial difficulties and won’t be able to make the balloon payment that’s been deferred.”
How did this man know so much about the nitty-gritty of her lease? What was Emile trying to do? Seething, she worked to control her temper. The man had no clue about the inner workings of the manipulating mind of Emile. But she planned to talk with the councilwoman about him. This had to be, at the very least, a conflict of interest. Could be more criminal—like extortion or blackmail.
“Chef Sikes, I have no intention of giving up the space or reneging on the lease agreement. So, no. You may not provide me financial remuneration to have early access to the space. It’s. Not. For. Lease.” She held the end-call button down and cut him off.
Why in the world had she ever decided that Emile could be trusted?
First time, shame on him. Second time, shame on me.
She’d been
blinded by his offer to help her make her dream come true.
“Deep breath.” She attempted to calm herself. After pushing in a CD, music filled the car. She rolled up the window and caught the groove of Tab Benoit singing “New Orleans Ladies.”
Images of the Tab at the last concert she’d attended drifted to images of the man with the steely blue-gray eyes. The peacock-blue suit color was growing on her…only a little.
“Suck it up, girl. Just ask Biloxi who he is.”
At the very least, maybe he would agree to be her date for her parents’ anniversary party.
Maybe.
****
After Rex returned home from a late afternoon run, he shook his head, unable to push away the images of Nola Belle and her captivating eyes. He entered the house. Stillness surrounded him as he walked through the rooms on the main floor. A momentary draft made him shiver. An ethereal presence. He caught a whiff of his mother’s perfume, and he couldn’t shake the sadness hanging in the air reminding him of Papa.
Everything remained as Rex always remembered it—freshly cleaned by their longtime housekeeper and looking as though Kayla lived elsewhere. Had she finally outgrown her sloppy teenaged ways?
The room was so neat it belonged in a magazine spread. Antiques. Aubusson rugs. Momma had been an only child, and she inherited many of these belongings from her wealthy parents. Otherwise, he and Kayla wouldn’t have grown up with such fine things.
“Grandfather, you were wrong when you said Momma married down.” Rex hadn’t understood those words then, they were lost on a young boy. “Momma had married a diamond in the rough when she married Papa.”
And honestly, Kayla was like Papa. With some mentoring and if only she’d listen, Kayla possessed the skills to run the restaurant on her own. But only if she’d take advice and direction. Part of what had made him successful was taking on business partners. They shared the risk and the reward. And three minds proved better than one. His sister needed him as a business partner.
“Kayla,” he said aloud, trudging up the stairs. “Even from a distance, all of your life, I’ve been protecting you. Since you arrived home from the hospital. I was four. Your silly gurgling smile captivated me.”
Twenty-eight years later, he still watched over her. She showed tenacity. That quality made her a wonderful pastry chef. All those intricate decorations were something he had no patience for. Those same attributes would make her a great executive chef. Yet at the same time, Kayla’s stubbornness rivaled Papa’s. As did her temper and her foul mouth.
“If I didn’t know how much you loved me and truly valued my input, I’d be offended by your off-color vocabulary and personal jabs,” he said aloud.
In his bedroom, Rex changed into faded jeans, a hole worn through on the thigh, then pulled a dark purple sweater over his head. Every sound—drawing back the drapes, his feet on the wooden floor, opening a drawer—brought an awareness of what family used to feel like in this house. The love Momma had wrapped around them. The boisterousness of Papa was like a triple shot of espresso. Rex mused. Worry wasn’t part of his vocabulary back then. Now it was the legacy left by both parents.
He’d helped raise Kayla, acting as both father and mother after Momma died with Papa immersing himself in the restaurant. Rex missed Kayla’s laugh. He used to tell her jokes to stop her from crying over some little-girl drama he didn’t understand, like the color of the laces for her sneakers needing to be mint green, not neon orange. These days, serious and somber best described him. It was to be expected. Important decisions had to be made, yet he didn’t want to lose the love and adoration of his little sister. Didn’t want her to cut him out of her life, even halfway.
“Snap out of it. Have a little faith in her. Hell, have a little faith in yourself.” He reached for the remote, turning on the CD player on his desk. Wynton Marsalis was his go-to horn player when he needed inspiration. Playing an air-trumpet, Rex’s fingers showed their muscle memory as he accompanied his idol. Maybe he would take Marquis up on his offer to jam after all.
Buoyed by the music, Rex opened the closet door and turned on the light. Three trumpet cases sat on a shelf right where he’d left them, only his best one moved with him to New York. After dragging a chair to reach high overhead, he pulled down the oldest case. His first practice trumpet. A Yamaha. He’d cleaned it not long ago. The kind of break he needed from all the funeral arrangements and related events.
Gathering a small blanket from a drawer, he removed the trumpet and wrapped it, then placed it in a backpack.
“It’s Saturday night. Let’s see if I still got it goin’ on.” Rex turned and locked the door before heading out to catch a streetcar. At his stop on Canal, he hopped off and headed into the French Quarter. Often, kids played on Royal Street, a favorite place for tourists.
Energized, Rex glanced from side to side at the shops. On his last trip down—Papa’s funeral—he hadn’t visited the Quarter. Since The Storm, every time he came home, a new shop had popped up, though several longtime businesses had closed permanently, unable to survive the down years after Katrina. Aromas of fresh baked French bread and andouille sausage filled his senses. Hot frying oil. Gumbo. Soaking in the scents, he continued his search, heading toward a favorite area where anyone could find street musicians; there had to be a group who’d let him jam. The stretch between 300 to 800 Royal was his target.
Stepping off the sidewalk onto the brick street, he avoided a crowd on the corner watching a mime—white face, white gloves, and traditional black beret—trying to get out of a box. Soulful licks from a guitar drifted to him as he continued his trek. Ahead, he found his spot, or rather the sound he sought. A band. Near the police station at Royal and Conti.
A small crowd blocked his view. People clapped to the beat of the music, and Rex slowed to listen. Five instruments. He maneuvered his way through the throng of people to stand on the front line of the semicircle of spectators. Five kids, all around twelve years old, played “When the Saints Go Marching In.” Their ensemble included a snare drum, two saxes, a trombone, and a trumpet. Their timing hit the mark, evidence that they practiced together.
As the group finished playing, the girl with the saxophone raced up to the crowd beginning to disperse with a hat in her hand. A few people tossed in bills, but mostly it was the clinking of coins as the audience thinned.
“Hey there,” Rex said, addressing the group. “I’ve got a deal for you.”
“What kinda deal, mistah?” the drummer asked.
Rex pulled out his trumpet and tossed his backpack against the building. “I want to jam with all y’all.”
The drummer, clearly the spokesperson for the group, eyed him up and down. “You’re an old dude. We don’t need your help.”
Nodding, Rex said, “I completely agree. I need you. I’m willing to pay each of you twenty bucks to let me play the rest of the night with y’all.”
“I gotta be home by nine o’clock,” the trumpet player grumbled, his brow furrowed with concern.
“We’ve got almost two hours.” Rex pointed to his watch.
“You’re gonna pay each of us twenty?” the girl with the sax asked.
“Yes.”
“We need to talk for a minute,” the drummer said. The young musicians huddled around their leader.
“That could be a big donation.”
“But he’s an old dude.”
“Money talks. Bullshit walks.”
“Okay, old dude,” the drummer said. “Show us the green, and it’s a yes.”
Fishing money out of his front pocket, Rex fanned out five twenty-dollar bills. The girl saxophonist snatched the money from him. “It’s all here.” She pulled up the hem of her jeans, folded the bills, and stuck them into her sock. “Let’s play.”
The drummer called time and started the beats for another rendition of “When the Saints Go Marching In.” Rex took a spot in the back, wanting the kids to be highlighted and for people to see and hear how good they wer
e.
The crowd grew and thinned with each new tune they played. As eight thirty approached, the drummer said, “Time.”
The other members of the group began to pack up their instruments.
“We gonna give him”—the drummer flicked his thumb in Rex’s direction—“a cut of the take?”
It took a moment for the comment to sink in as Rex wrapped his horn in the soft blanket. “No, dude,” Rex said. “I got what I needed. We’re good. Thanks for letting me hang with you.”
“Perfect,” the girl sax player said. “The money isn’t for us anyway. It’s for our marching band. Miss Nola’s gonna be real surprised when she sees our donation.”
“Miss Nola?” Rex hefted the backpack on his shoulder. “Nola Dutrey?”
“She’s our music and band teacher.”
“At school?”
“Naw,” the drummer said. “We belong to a community band she started. I think she teaches part-time, though.”
“She teaches smart kids at a private school,” the girl added.
Rex nodded. Interesting information. “Catch y’all another time.” Rex waved goodbye to the group of kids.
“For an old dude, you’re not bad. You playing upped our take. We’re here every Saturday night. Come see us again.”
Waving, Rex headed toward Arceneau’s.
The story of Miss Nola grows increasingly interesting.
The siren with the sultry eyes, long hair, and lovely curves. His thoughts had drifted repeatedly to her, but he always shoved them away. She was an employee of Arceneau’s, and any involvement would be a bad idea. But it wouldn’t hurt to catch her act tonight.
Don’t get involved with a problem. Fix things for Kayla and go back to New York.
He shook his head. Maybe checking out Marquis at the 12/8 Blues Bar was a better idea.
But one thing was certain, Kayla still needed to understand—it was the business or Nola singing. Both couldn’t occupy the same financial books and the business still succeed.
He prayed Kayla wouldn’t make good on her threats.