by Linda Joyce
Chapter 6
The warning buzzer caught Rex’s attention. He glanced up from the computer screen. A door to the restaurant had opened somewhere. Faint giggles floated up through the air duct system. Seconds later the buzzing stopped, which meant Kayla turned off the alarm before it sent a message to the security company. She had no way of knowing he was sequestered in the office on the third floor. Staying out of sight might provide him with useful information, since clearly his sister wasn’t alone.
Tucking a folder into the bottom desk drawer, he locked it. Kayla had never seen his birth certificate, and he wanted to keep it that way. His mother had given it to him after she became seriously ill, explaining all the ramifications for him and Kayla and all the reasons he had to keep it a secret. Then he’d been too young to understand all she said, but the uncomfortable truth had grown on him as he got older the way kudzu covered a hillside in the south.
If his father had ever seen the document, he hadn’t examined it thoroughly. His uncle? Surely not. Had they known, their egos would’ve destroyed the family. As fathers, they hadn’t concerned themselves with the welfare of their children until their children were of an age to work in restaurants and help build the family legacy. Papa and Uncle Henri each vied to be the best chef and launch their businesses to celebrity status—it mattered not that they pitted cousin against cousin along the way. Thinking about the dysfunction started a burn in his gut every time. The shame of the truth was something he hoped to keep from Kayla. However, the truth of their parentage didn’t obliterate the fact that they were still siblings. Still Arceneaus.
A click of the mouse closed the open spreadsheet on the computer. With the last of the accounting books forensically reviewed to his satisfaction, he had worked on a plan to give his sister what she needed professionally—and financially—plus a way for him to keep from losing money if he invested. The financial decline of the restaurant was worse than expected. Yet, barring some unprecedented downturn in the economy, he could make it rally if—and it was a big if—Kayla agreed to his changes. Otherwise, she would be on her own. He wouldn’t invest a dime. In six months, she’d be shut down. Yes, there were other jobs at nearly any restaurant, but not as an executive chef. She’d be forced to leave New Orleans, which would crush her artistic creativity with food.
It would scar him forever if his sister lost her legacy.
Never would he allow his uncle to take over Arceneau’s.
He sighed. Shucking oysters barehanded would be easier than obtaining Kayla’s cooperation. Her independent streak was long and wide. A definite Arceneau trait.
“Champagne,” Kayla shouted from below.
He walked to the office door, opening it farther. Footsteps on the back wooden stairs leading up to the second floor sounded out a beat. A burst of laughter from the lounge urged him to check on Kayla, but he stayed glued to the spot when he heard his sister call out, “Nola, I think I’ve got it bad for that horn blower.”
Horn blower? Who? What were his sister and Miss Belle up to? He listened intently.
“I have to rehearse.” Nola sounded insistent.
Maybe chitchat between his sister and the illustrious Nola Belle would give him a clue as to why Nola received such a large paycheck every other month. The accounting records provided no description. What services did she render? Could it be blackmail money or extortion of some kind? Instinct made him shove that idea aside. Nothing as sinister as that. He would’ve sensed that about her immediately, the way a dog could sniff out drugs. Yet still…how well did anyone really know someone else? His parents were a prime example. Family secrets buried deep. But just as the tides rose and fell in the bayous, clues to secrets always rose to the surface—all it took was time.
“One more toast. To my big brother. Let’s hope he finds a woman and gets laid. He’s wound so tight if he were a guitar, his strings would break.”
In the quiet of the building, Rex heard every sound floating up. Glass clinked.
“Again,” Kayla said.
“No more. I’ve already had too much to drink.” Nola giggled.
“Or not enough.”
“Whaaat?”
Someone fingered piano keys. Nola’s image popped into his mind, and he imagined her standing before him, reaching up, and running her fingers through his hair. His scalp tingled from her touch. He shook his head to clear away the intense reality, but the sensations lingered.
“What do you think about my brother?”
“Think? Not a thing.”
“You said he looked like a pimp.”
A pimp?
“Don’t be offended. He’s a fetching-looking fellow.”
“Where did that description come from?”
“My great-grandmother. That’s how she would’ve described him.”
Fetching-looking fellow? He raked his fingers through his hair and rolled his eyes.
“I think the two of you could be good between the sheets.”
He smiled. Yes, they could be good in bed.
“Has the bubbly popped your brain cells?”
“I heard you were seeing that Emile guy—politically connected. That’s how you got the space for the band. But I’ve never seen you with him. Let your ha-ya down, Nooola.” Kayla slurred her words.
“It is. And for the record, I’ve never had a relationship with Emile.”
Rex’s fingers itched to stroke her long wavy hair. The idea of another man doing the same left a bitter taste in his mouth.
“No, girl. I mean…the levee you have around your heart. Let it wash away. Momma always said the fastest way to a man’s heart—”
“Through his stomach?”
“But Momma was wrong. I’ve fed a lot of men in my short life. In and out of bed. I’ve not found the right one. I think music might bring me better luck. Like with that horn blower.”
“Kayla. You’re drunk.”
“That’s okay. Keeps me honest. It’s the only time I truly say what I feel.”
“So what’s on your mind?”
“Will you act as my priest and hear my confession?”
Rex’s heart seized. Kayla’s tone dripped with sadness. It had to be the alcohol. Kayla never drank before five p.m. and never at the restaurant—a rule he’d taught her after reading it in some book about manners. What kind of bad influence did Nola Dutrey have over his sister? He quietly stepped into the hall to hear more of their conversation.
“Sober up and ask me again later,” Nola answered.
Rex frowned. If Kayla was drinking during the day, her judgment had to be impaired. Maybe he needed to rethink his plan. Did she have a problem she had hidden from him? Investing in upgrades and branding only to have her make stupid mistakes as a result of overindulging with alcohol would be a waste of money. He had to be sure she was capable of running the restaurant after he left. One thing was certain—his sister had changed.
He folded his arms and leaned against the wall. Worry and concern beat a steady thrum in his chest. Last night was the perfect example. His sister had argued against keeping Papa’s house. Too big. Too much upkeep. Too quiet. She hadn’t said too lonely, but he’d felt a rush of mournfulness from her. It was more than grief from the passing of their father.
He wanted her to live fully. Have a life—not just the restaurant. He couldn’t recall her last boyfriend. Maybe he needed to hit up his friends and fix her up. She’d laugh at that suggestion. He couldn’t blame her. During her high school years, he’d done everything to keep guys away from her—including lying about her having an STD. He pleaded stupidity when she discovered the lie he’d told in a panic. It was years before she forgave him after suffering through the humiliation.
But he did it to protect her.
Now she wanted to cut family ties and buy a condo? A converted warehouse facing the river just outside the French Quarter. As soon as Papa’s house sold, she intended to move. The Garden District home they’d grown up in no longer held any appeal. She wanted
freedom to have a new life. Besides, she’d argued, she was never home to use the pool, let alone try to seduce a pool guy. She threw out a lecherous grin, and he swallowed a laugh.
“Everything I’ve read about grief says making a major life decision in the first year isn’t a wise move,” he’d told her.
“You’ve been reading about grief?” She lifted an eyebrow. “Since when?”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Kayla.”
“Maybe so, but there’s a lot you don’t know about me. You’re the one who left for college and never came back. I’ve been here with Papa all these years. I have to get out of this house!”
He’d sighed. If he wanted the property, which he did, he’d have to buy her out. That could be dicey if the truth he was hiding ever came out. The idea of remaining tightly tethered to his New Orleans roots came into sharp focus, and the urge to stay tugged as hard as the urge to return to New York.
Then Kayla had announced Nola Dutrey would be her new roommate at the condo.
“Why share a place with someone else? If she’s in need of your help so badly, let’s lease her a room here—we’ve got five bedrooms.”
Glaring at him, nostrils flared, fists straining to strike, Kayla had shouted, “She won’t take charity. And she’s going to continue to sing at the restaurant if I have to pay her from my share of the sale of the house. She’s involved in a project that needs funding, and I intend to help.”
Below in the lounge, feedback from a microphone squealed. Rex’s attention snapped to his sister and her friend. It sounded as though Nola prepared to sing. He’d heard a lot about her talent, but reserved the right to make his own judgment until he heard her voice. The CD of hers he’d purchased from a gift shop on Royal remained unopened in his bedroom.
But what was the real scope of the project Nola was involved in? She drew his sister like a tourist to Marie Laveau’s grave. He’d never seen Kayla so attached to anyone. Nearly devoted. Nola had changed her from a quiet mouse to…this crazed tiger about to pounce. Was voodoo involved?
No matter. He’d get to the bottom of it.
He locked his jaw. Emotions warred. If Nola was all that, maybe he needed to leave Kayla in her hands. Sell the house. Let little sister fend for herself while he flew back to his comfortable, well-organized life in New York. Go back to where emotions didn’t slam him to the wall. Where scents and sounds didn’t upend his life at every turn. New York was safe.
Then a realization hit him hard.
Nola has replaced me as Kayla’s confidant.
His sister had always looked up to him. The feeling banging around inside him was more than overprotectiveness with a swath of jealousy. Was Kayla unplugging from their family ties? He needed to get close to Miss Nola Dutrey and discover her secrets.
As though on cue, Nola crooned the first line of “The Look of Love.” The sultriness of her tone rolled through him the way warm honey oozed.
Her voice could melt sugar.
A flush of desire gripped his body as she continued to sing. He made fists and then relaxed his fingers. He pictured her sensual eyes, heavy-lidded, and gazing at him. Licking his lips, he imagined tastings hers, full and luscious.
All his senses heightened. The curse of New Orleans. He ached to satisfy the burning want she created within him.
Hearing her wasn’t enough.
He needed to feel the melody of Nola Dutrey.
Quietly he removed his shoes, and with them in hand, descended the stairs. Stopping on the bottom tread, he leaned against the wall all the while hypnotized by the silkiness of her voice. It cleansed his soul, filling him with newfound peace along with hot desire. Every word she sang fused with the fibers of his being.
Quiet settled in the room as she finished the song. He slipped on his shoes. What did a mortal man say to a woman who sang like an angel? Not a pickup line. Something thoughtful and intelligent, but he couldn’t think intelligently now. He had no words for the feelings she evoked within him.
“Oh crap! I’ve got to run. Kayla, wake up! Let’s go to my apartment. You can sleep there while I have band practice. Come on, girl.”
“Leave me here,” Kayla groaned. “I’ll call you.”
“Fine. Ringy-dingy later,” Nola said.
When Rex stepped into the room, he saw the last of the back of Nola’s head as she descended the stairs to the first floor. He went to the closet in the corner of the lounge and pulled out a clean black tablecloth to cover his sister. Kayla snuggled it around herself without waking up as she lay sprawled on the red tufted bench. He would deal with her later. Right now, his attention remained on the songbird of New Orleans, and he wasn’t going to let her fly away.
****
Nola shuffled into the community center an hour later after leaving Kayla to sleep off the effects of too much champagne. Later tonight, she hoped to drag the chef over to see that trumpet player blow at The Warehouse. After all, their philanthropic mission of providing musical instruments to schools and after-school programs sparked her decision to start a neighborhood marching band. For a fleeting moment, she considered asking Kayla to invite Rex tonight, but a nagging feeling stopped her. He wanted her fired. Wanted her gone. She was happy to get in and out of Arceneau’s today without seeing him. Best to keep a low profile. At least until the show on Saturday night. Just maybe, her singing would give him a new perspective about her. If she couldn’t change his mind, she had to trust that another job would land in her lap. Have faith. But jobs with the flexibility that Arceneau’s offered were few and far between—not many places would leave a standing gig open like they did when she’d toured all summer last year.
Dropping her purse on a desk, she clapped her hands. “Hey there!” She tried to get the attention of her rambunctious students. “Settle down.”
Her pleas blended with the noise bouncing off the white cinder-block walls, and she flipped the overhead lights off and on several times to signal for their attention. She counted twenty-three of the thirty-five students in attendance. If she couldn’t gather more of them together for each practice session, she might have to sanction the less dedicated ones. It wasn’t fair to the rest of the band, who worked so hard three times a week on marching formations and music, to be brought down by those not putting in the time and lacking performance luster.
She positioned herself in front of a music stand before the group. “Take your seats and hang on my every word. We’re going to pick a drum major in May. That person must demonstrate”—she counted off on her fingers—“dedication, leadership, and musical knowledge. So be thinking of who among you fits that criteria. But know, this isn’t a popularity contest and I reserve the right to veto and pick my own.”
“We need a name for the band,” a trumpet player called out.
“Marigny Marchers,” someone else shouted.
“I think alliteration is catchy.” Nola nodded.
“What’s al…al-litter-ation?” one of the saxophone players asked.
“Al-lit-er-a-tion,” she sounded out the word. “Like Marigny Marchers. Both begin with the ‘m’ sound. Alliteration is when the same sound happens to closely connected words.”
“This is marching band. Not English class,” another student groaned.
Nola flashed a smile. “Maybe so, but see how education is catchy? Good start to deciding on a name. We’ll finalize it before fall. In the meantime, let’s focus on the music. The name will come.”
“Miss Nola.” A girl waved her flute in the air. “When are you leaving to go on tour? My cousin says you’re famous. Wants your autograph on a CD.”
Nola cocked her head to one side. “I’m not famous. Just trying to pursue my musical dreams like you.” She wanted to be a good example for them. Working on her craft showed them, instead of telling them, to stay focused on their aspirations.
“Yeah, but you’ve been on stages where people have paid to hear you sing,” a young man in the drum section shouted. “Like at festivals
and sh—stuff.” The drummers all clicked their drumsticks together in unison, affirming the statement.
If only they showed that precision during practice.
She allowed the smile on her face to grow. “Each of you”—she pointed to several students—“is here because you love music and are taking the time to study it and learn to play an instrument. You have no idea the places music can take you. Yes, I’m heading out on tour, but not until after school gets out in May. A couple of my friends along with the drum major will handle summer practices. My dreams haven’t been handed to me. Like y’all, I’m working hard on mine, too. I just came from a rehearsal.”
Which reminded her, she had to pull music for “Unforgettable.” Her sister had texted that a bride had selected that song for the father-daughter dance at her wedding the first weekend in May at Fleur de Lis. She hadn’t performed it before, and it would take some practice to make it perfect.
“Let’s get started,” the bass drummer boomed out his command.
“I agree,” Nola said. “Tenor drums. One. Two. Three. Four.” She pointed, and the drummers began to play.
Tat. Tat. Tat. Tat.
The sound filled the community center, echoing around the room. The rest of the band members tapped their feet in 4/4 time.
She clapped out the beats. “Snare drums.” After keeping time for a full six measures, she pointed to the bass drummer to add his percussion sound.
When they were all finally in sync, Nola pointed to the brass section and with an upward swipe of her finger, the trumpets, trombones, and a single tuba chimed in. A moment later, she stood in front of the woodwinds. “Ready. Set. Let’s. Go.” Saxophone notes were mixed with notes from a couple of flutes and a clarinet.
The level of improvement since the beginning of the year astounded her. These students were thriving in the program. Musically, they’d be ready for Carnival season next January, but they needed uniforms. Needed a trailer to haul instruments to events. Traveling added additional expenses. Backing a marching band had cost way more than she had imagined. Her expense planning proved to be slightly lacking. But each student had their own personal instrument—that in itself was a huge accomplishment. Her heart swelled with admiration for each of the students in the band.