Bayou Brides

by Linda Joyce

  Unable to intrude any longer on their private moment, Nola stalked back to her apartment. Once inside, she flung herself on her bed. The image of Marquis’ hands transformed into images of Rex’s and then turned to their lovemaking. She closed her eyes. The warmth of his touch lingered on her body. His breath on her neck. His mouth kissing a trail down her chest to her breast. Her eyes popped open as her pelvis muscles contracted. An ache deep in her core formed. “Oh, God. I want him.”

  Yes, she’d lied to him, when in fact, she wanted nothing more than to make love to him. Over and over again. A flash of insight startled her. Rex being congratulated by all of her family at Fleur de Lis. She opened her eyes. The image had etched itself in her brain, and she could still see it as plain as powdered sugar on a beignet.

  “Bugger. Butter. Bacon!” Frustrated, she made her way to the bathroom and turned on the water. “If a cold shower works for guys…”

  She climbed in and shivered when cold wetness splattered against her body. “Sure ’nough. It works.” Turning the knob, she moved it until warm water flowed. “Mary had a little lamb.” She sang to distract her from the feel of Rex.

  After dressing quickly and drying her hair, she slithered into a long black dress and clasped a necklace with red and clear crystals around her neck. The stones captured and reflected light and added a little bit of bling.

  The outfit was a bit overdone for Harbor House Bistro, a casual neighborhood place, but the dress suited her mood and the bling served as camouflage to distract from her raw emotions. “Focus, girl.” When she got her first big break, a record contract to sing with a famous blues trumpet player, she vowed then, no matter what, she would always give the audience in front of any stage one hundred percent. She’d climbed her way to the top of a short mountain thanks to small club owners giving her a chance.

  Nola slid heels into a tote bag, opting to walk to work in flats, and then left the apartment. On her way, she texted Kayla to set up a time for coffee and a chat tomorrow. She didn’t want any hard feelings to fester, but she surely wasn’t about to knock on Marquis’ door and interrupt any kind of private performance. Maybe the good that could come from the awkward confrontation would be a connection between Kayla and Marquis. Nola mused, it would certainly save her time from playing Cupid. Kayla could be one stubborn woman.

  The minutes it took to walk the seven blocks to the Bistro cleared Nola’s head. Traffic had died down. She kept a close lookout for kids on bicycles. Walking invigorated her mind, though her body complained about the soreness from her fall. As she pulled on the door to the Bistro, the aromas of deep-fried shrimp and the yeastiness of beer triggered hunger pains. Only a dozen customers dotted the place, but the numbers would swell to standing room only by the time ten thirty rolled around.

  “Nola, you’re early,” the bartender said matter-of-factly, without glancing at the clock. “I can usually set my clock by your arrival—fifteen minutes to showtime.”

  Life had changed suddenly today and directed her along like a tugboat on the river. “I’m starving. Cooper, I’d like a cup of seafood gumbo and a baguette, please.”

  To the right of the bar, out of view of the front door, she seated herself at a two-top in the corner—the family table where employees took their breaks. Beyond the swinging doors was the kitchen. Yummy aromas drifted from there.

  “It’ll be right up.” Cooper placed a cup of hot tea in front of her on the table.

  She smiled up at him. “Merci.” Settling into the ambiance, she closed her eyes and pictured herself on stage. In her mind, as she sang, her voice lifted clear and soothing. She hit each of her notes. Emotion carried through her singing touched the audience. Visualization before every performance helped her present her best. It was part of her warm-up ritual.

  Laughter caught her attention. She leaned over for a peek toward the bar. The trio who accompanied her, a drummer, pianist, and cellist, stood together sharing a story, and even Cooper chuckled. It would be a good night with easy comradery. As was their custom, the guys had been chilling out in the room behind the stage. Only a select few knew of the secret door in the paneling that opened to the waiting room painted purple and gold.

  “Band is here,” Cooper said, as he delivered a cup of gumbo. “Take your time eating.”

  She looked up at him, the bartender who also served as bouncer if needed. “Thank you.”

  He grinned and nodded. That was Cooper. Always calm with a megawatt smile that appealed to the women who regularly came into the place alone. He was their friend, confidant, and the object of dreams for some. She’d worked with him for nearly a year and knew little about his personal life other than he owned a third of the business, and he made tables from reclaimed items that sold at an artisan’s gallery on North Peters Street.

  “Hey there, honey,” a young man said, approaching the table as Nola lifted a spoonful of gumbo mouth high. He had a mop of curly hair, wore jeans and a black t-shirt. He plucked a card from his back pocket and waved it.

  She ate, hoping the man would take a hint and leave her in peace.

  “I’m from Back Beat. You know, the magazine.”

  Nodding, she took another bite of her dinner. Not only did she know the local magazine, she’d had the privilege of gracing the cover. But she didn’t know this guy. And in the past, reporters usually called in advance for an appointment time for interviews.

  He pulled out the chair at the table and sat. She lifted an eyebrow to which he smiled.

  “I write the column, ‘Breaking the Beat.’ It’s like breaking news about stuff going on behind the scenes, ya know. Like about how deals get made. I’m Marc Sharp.”

  She didn’t know where the conversation was leading with this guy, but the pinging sensation running up the back of her neck was a warning of something coming—something she wasn’t going to like.

  “Mr. Sharp—”

  “Marc.”

  “Mr. Sharp, I have a performance that’s starting in a little bit. If you’d like to talk with me, why don’t we make an appointment for later in the week or even next week?”

  “You’re Nola Bridgette Dutrey of Fleur de Lis”—she pushed the cup of gumbo away and stared at him—“but professionally you’re called Nola Belle.”

  She didn’t acknowledge the information, just continued to stare. Give him enough rope to hang himself. It was only a matter of time before he quoted something as fact, then she would pointedly explain how it was a lie.

  “You started a community band for kids—admirable by the way. I understand the performing arts high school is keeping an eye on a couple of your kids.”

  That news was unsettling. She’d hadn’t yet talked with anyone at the school, though it was part of her master plan—after the band celebrated its one-year mark. No one knew, not a soul, about her plan to showcase the talents of students with the hope of opening doors, creating opportunities for the kids that might otherwise be closed—all because their families couldn’t pay for music lessons and quality instruments.

  “I see I now have your attention. I know that you work three jobs to support your project—admirable—and I’ll bet you’re planning a fundraiser…” He tapped a finger at his temple. “If I recall correctly, your birthday, May 1st.”

  “What do you want, Mr. Sharp?” His knowledge of her business was beginning to unnerve her.

  “I want to know if you think sleeping with Emile Broussard is going to make the lease payment on the converted fire station disappear.”

  “What?” Nola rose, knocking the back of the chair against the wall. Heads turned in her direction, but she didn’t care.

  Cooper appeared beside the table. “You need to move away from Miss Nola.” He looked down his nose at the guy seated at the table.

  Marc held up his hands in surrender. “I’m not looking for trouble. I just came to get confirmation of the facts. This is news that people want to know. Music. Politics. Bed partners. Let’s face it, this is a sexy story, and I want
to be the one to break it.”

  “Where did you ever get such a ludicrous idea?” But she knew. Emile’s signature was all over this move. If she protested she wasn’t sleeping with him, how did she prove the truth of her claim? If she worked out any sort of a deal to pay the owed balance on the lease with the real estate owner turned political staffer, then despite the truth, it would still look as though she had been given favoritism—which would cause people to think she was indeed having an intimate relationship with the man she was growing to hate even more.

  “Let me show you the door,” Cooper said. He pulled the chair out from the table, moving it like it was empty rather than occupied by a man.

  Marc rose. “I’ll go. But Miss Nola Belle, I’ve got your scent, and I’ll be watching you.” He sauntered out saluting to the folks staring at him.

  “You okay?” Cooper asked.

  Nola nodded. “I’ll be fine. I’m going to disappear for a few minutes.” She meant hide, but didn’t want Cooper to know how Marc Sharp had shaken her.

  And if she and Emile met Saturday night at Arceneau’s, what conclusions would people come to about their relationship?

  Chapter 9

  Rex pushed to sitting on the couch in the formal living room, stretched his neck, and turned to check the time on the mantel clock. Six thirty a.m. He’d waited up for Kayla to arrive home, dozing off sometime after two, and now his tailored suit bore the wrinkles of proof of his concern for his younger sister. “Why didn’t she answer her phone? Not even a considerate text to say she wasn’t coming home.”

  Kayla was right, he wasn’t her parent. But old habits die hard…if they ever passed on at all. Whenever he visited home, he fell into the role of father, mother, brother, and protector. It was about time he defined his role differently, but how? Shoving his fingers through his hair, he rose and trudged up the stairs. He didn’t want to pry into her life any more than he wanted her prying into his…but the time had come to crack open the vault of old family secrets, like a crypt in one of the New Orleans cemeteries.

  Reaching the second floor, he walked to his room, and his thoughts turned to Nola. There could be worse obsessions. Since he’d heard her sing, her voice echoed in his mind. Last night while waiting for Kayla to arrive, he’d replayed every detail about making love to the songstress. Her bedroom eyes captivated him, her body melted when he touched her, their joining had been dreamlike, yet emotionally intense. He wanted a repeat performance. The same need drove him to create a new dish or play music. Her voice mesmerized him, opening a place in his heart that cried out to be filled with…

  Love.

  “Love?” He jerked around to find the source of the sound producing the word.

  Yes, love.

  He flinched. The words came to him on a whisper. He reached for his ear as if he might capture someone’s breath there. A whiff of his mother’s perfume drifted to him. He quickly scanned the room to see if, just once, he might catch a glimpse of her, even if only a vague hint of an apparition.

  “Love?” he said again. “Who’s talking about love? Lust, yes. Desire, hell yes. But love? I don’t know about that.”

  Stripping down to his briefs, he did a face-plant onto the bed. Pulling a pillow under his chest, he rested his forehead on his folded arms. He considered rolling over and power napping between the sheets, but images of Nola in his lap, her head tilted back and eyes closed, intruded. The tip of her tongue licking the bow of her upper lip popped into his mind. He hardened. It was as though he could taste her skin, smell her scent, hear her moans, and feel the warmth of her body against his. His breath quickened. The sensations of her made him stiffen more. He wanted to make love to her. To feel all of her. But how? What chance was there for seduction? He didn’t have a way to reach her…except at the restaurant. Her employment file resided on the computer there along with all her vital information. Like her phone number.

  Now fully awake and unable to deal with the ache for Nola, he showered, dressed quickly, then called for a cab. The first appointment of the day, a rendezvous with an estate attorney. Then meetings with a couple of vendors to source produce for the restaurant. Kayla might not like his involvement in the business, but she craved the freshest ingredients for cooking—he could provide that for her. Then he had to find Marquis. Did he know the name of Nola’s tour manager? Maybe with help from friends, Rex could get Nola booked into some clubs in New York City. It would be great to share the summer with her, showing her the sights, feeding her at night at his restaurants, then sharing pleasure together in bed.

  Renewed excitement shot through him, a win-win rising from the depths of despair following Papa’s death. Nola was his Venus. A goddess of beauty. She energized him, infusing him with hope—not only for a future together, but that he and Kayla could find their way to a new kind of normal in life and maintain their family relationship.

  “Thanks,” he told the cabdriver as he climbed out at the law office of Talbot Anderson, an old high school classmate. It was time to stop conjuring up scenarios and delve into facts. Talbot had answers. He’d help create a plan, but only after all the facts had been revealed. The attorney who handled the reading of Papa’s Last Will and Testament had assured him and Kayla that the olographic will met the requirements of a legal document in Louisiana: entirely handwritten, dated, and signed. But as to the disputable facts, the man had no awareness. Rex had information that could change everything…for Kayla.

  ****

  Nola rolled and slapped at her phone. The ringing continued. “Shh…”

  The ringing stopped.

  Ding. Ding. Ding.

  “Ding. Dang text.” She grabbed the phone and stuck it under her pillow. “I’m sleeping,” she groaned, wanting her enticing dream to continue.

  When the phone rang again, she sat up, pulled it out, and checked to identify the criminal trespassing on her slumber.

  “What?” she said hoarsely to Kayla, expecting a lecture about the uncomfortable situation with Rex last night.

  “Nola, if our friendship means anything to you, get your ass down here now.”

  “It’s six thirty in the morning.”

  “Well, I could’ve pounded on your door at five thirty a.m., but I chose to let you sleep. And not because you might have my brother still in your bed…but I’m going to bust an organ if you don’t come.”

  “Which organ?” She yawned. “A lung wouldn’t be bad. You’ve got a second one. Same thing with a—”

  “Get down here. It’s important.”

  “—kidney.” Nola punched the pillow and fell backward. “I’m teaching at ten a.m. Then I’m working at Harbor again tonight. Could I come—”

  “Fuck you. Come now. Grab a taxi. Hell, I don’t give a shit if you come naked. Just come.”

  “Kayla—” Nola pleaded, wanting to drift back to sleep. No light seeped in around the edges of her curtains. Darkness outside. No time for humans to be roaming around. Besides, in her dream she was just about to make love to Rex again. His lips had been nibbling on her neck and producing waves of desires, not to mention moaning, but Kayla wouldn’t appreciate the details. Not after her reaction last night.

  “I need you.” Kayla’s voice wavered.

  Nola’s eyes widened. It was as though a spotlight shined in her cloudy mind. “I’m on my way, girlfriend. And for the record, nothing will happen again with your brother.”

  “Just get here!”

  Nola popped out of bed and headed for the bathroom. Never had she heard a wavering break in Kayla’s voice. Never could she even remotely guess that her tough-talking friend shed tears. Ever. She certainly hadn’t cried when her father died. Had something gone really wrong? Had Marquis done something? In their limited interactions, the trumpet player always treated her with the utmost respect. She couldn’t imagine him being anything other than a perfect gentleman with Kayla…well, a gentleman, if not perfect. Who wanted that?

  Rushing through her morning routine, she slathered moistu
rizer everywhere and combed out her hair. A touch of makeup with sunblock came next. Sliding into yoga pants and a t-shirt, she pulled a hoodie over her outfit.

  “Teacher clothes.” She went to her closet.

  “Shoes? Come here, lickety-split.” She knelt down and peeked under the bed for purple, suede ballerina flats. “Come to Momma.” She grabbed them and tossed them in a tote bag, slid a notebook inside, a folded purple skirt, then a white blouse on top, and lastly she added the purple blazer, a thrift shop bargain from Christmas. Picking up her purse and grabbing her phone, she was out the door in less than twenty minutes.

  Hoofing it over to Elysian Fields, she hailed a cab. “Arceneau’s near the corner of Conti and Dauphine.”

  “I know my city,” the driver muttered, pulling away from the curb.

  Finally at the restaurant, Nola went around to the back door and knocked. Her heart pounded. What could’ve happened to bring Kayla to tears? Where was Rex? How would she reach him if Kayla needed his help?

  When she banged on the door again, Kayla opened it.

  “Finally!” Kayla tugged Nola’s hand, pulling her inside. “I don’t know what to do.”

  Kayla clung onto one of her hands as Nola dropped her purse and tote bag in the small office. She allowed her friend to drag her into the heart of the kitchen. Quiet. Eerie. She’d never been there when someone wasn’t chopping or some electrical gadget whirred at a hundred and thirty decibels.

  “So, what do I do?” Kayla’s eyes shown bright. She was like a young puppy eagerly waiting for a treat. Reminded her of her own feelings about a certain man she’d just met.

  Nola tried sorting through her muddled thoughts. Her body was present, but part of her mind remained back in her apartment dreaming of Rex. “You can start by giving me coffee.” Maybe java would dissolve the cobwebs. Craziness in Kayla’s eyes worried her. She didn’t want to risk saying the wrong thing. Her thoughts drifted to Rex. Had something happened to him?