by Amanda Usen
Jackson Square appeared ahead, and he hung a left and headed for the steps across from the park. He sat and opened the bag, laying aside the cookies and unrolling the paper-wrapped sandwich. He took a bite. Richness exploded in his mouth, chased by the acidic burst of crunchy pickled vegetables. The sauce caressed his tongue, creamy, full of garlic and spice, awesome with the crusty bread and the crispy fried oysters. He plowed through the sandwich without stopping, losing himself in the simple satisfaction of good food.
When he was finished, he had just enough room for the cookies. Maybe. It was going to be tight. Sugar flowed over his tongue, dissolving as he chewed chunks of pecan and soft dough. He was reminded of the pecan praline his manager had left on his desk as a welcome gift, but the cookie somehow took it to another level. He was glad he had two. He popped the last bite into his mouth, tucked his trash back into the bag, and took aim at a basket near the steps.
Just as he landed the shot, the sound of a trumpet split the air. It was only a few notes, but every hair on his body stood on end, recognizing the melody. The compulsion to join in was so strong his fingers itched for his guitar. Quin looked around for the source of the music and spotted the trumpet player standing under the shade of a tree. The same eight notes beckoned, and he rose, walking until he found himself in front of the old man.
His dark skin was lined and his grizzled beard was shot through with every color of gray from gunmetal to cloud. His hair was pure snow, and he cut a striking figure in his vintage tuxedo. The old man broke off with a merry laugh and lowered the trumpet. “Baby Q, back at last. I thought I felt something coming.”
Shock rippled up and down his spine. “Do I know you?”
The old man cocked his head to the side but said nothing. A purple velvet-lined trumpet case lay open on the sidewalk between them. Was he waiting for a handout? Quin reached for his wallet. The man shook his head, grinning. He tugged a guitar case out from behind the bench. “Spare change is always appreciated, but I’d rather have a song, Q.”
“Why are you calling me Q? Do you know me?” he asked again. “And how do you know I play guitar?”
The man bent to lay his trumpet in the case on the sidewalk and cracked open the guitar case. Quin’s full stomach flipped and rolled, rising into his throat. He reached out to stroke one finger across the Gibson archtop acoustic, somehow already knowing exactly how smooth the wood would be.
The old man’s dark eyes gleamed as he looked at Quin. “Thought you might remember the guitar, even if you don’t remember the old man who taught you to play it.” Quin stared at him, but felt no glimmer of recognition. As far as he knew, he’d learned to play guitar from a private instructor hired by Maeve. Could this man help him unearth earlier memories? Did he want him to?
His throat convulsed, and he could barely get out the words. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right, boo, but I been missing your Mama somethin’ fierce. That musta been why I was playing her song. Frankie and Johnny got her moving, fo’ sho’. Let’s bring her back for a spell.”
“I don’t remember her. Or you. Or anything.”
The man’s gaze pierced deep. “No, I can see you don’t, not yet. But you will.” He pulled the guitar out of the case and held it by the neck. Quin took it and sat on the bench, feeling like he’d stepped into an alternate universe. Everything, yet nothing, was familiar, and it made his skin itch. The man picked up the trumpet and bounced through the intro again while Quin strummed his fingers across the strings, finding the guitar in perfect tune.
The trumpet led, and he followed, the song ripping out of his soul as if it had been there forever, waiting to be called. He didn’t think; he just played. He strummed back-up, supporting the melody, then jumped ahead, picking lead until the old man whipped out in front of him again. Joy soared through him, the simple peace he always felt while playing music. A breeze blew, rustling the dollars that passing tourists tossed in the trumpet case. The words filled his head, and the voice singing them spread goose bumps all over his body. A cool hand caressed the back of his neck, and fingers ruffled his hair. Jazz filled the air, weaving through his memory, tightening, tangling, and filling his stomach with knots. His fingers ached, and his head began to pound, but he played on. He couldn’t have stopped if he wanted to.
Suddenly, the trumpet cut out mid-note, and the old man reached over and plucked the guitar out of his hands, a furious expression on his face. “What are you doing? Git outta here! Go on! We’ve got enough ghosts.”
Quin sucked in a rattling breath. The gleam in the man’s eyes was gone, and he looked one step away from bashing Quin over the head with the old guitar.
Quin rose to his feet. “Sorry.”
“It don’ madda.” The old man dropped the guitar into the case and put it out of sight behind the bench.
When he looked up again, he gasped. “Baby Q? Is it really you?”
“No.” Quin backed away, shaking his head. His heart pounded, echoing the ache in his skull. He fumbled in his wallet and dropped a wad of bills into the trumpet case.
“God bless.” The old man smiled at him. “Tell yo’ sister not to be a stranger.”
Quin hurried down the street. What did he mean? Was Melly in New Orleans? Did the old man know her? Or did his memory weave in and out of time? He walked faster, not sure what had thrown him most about the encounter, the man remembering him or the sucker punch of being forgotten in a heartbeat, but one thing was clear. The past wasn’t going to leave him alone. Had he really thought building the hotel would be enough? Or a courtyard? That he could come down here and the nightmares would end instead of get worse?
He didn’t slow until he reached the Keystone and caught sight of himself in the window. The expression on his face mirrored the churning in his heart. He nodded at his manager and continued into his office where he slumped into his chair, sucking deep breaths until he was certain he could speak with no sign of his inner turmoil. He dragged his cell out of his pocket and dialed his assistant.
“Hey, boss. I’ve got the property information you wanted.” As usual, Kyle answered in the middle of their last conversation. “Last Call is mortgaged to the hilt, and you would not believe the interest rate. A total nut crusher. Did you say the Moutons launched a lunch business? The guy at the bank wouldn’t say much, but it sounds like they’re in the red. Keep pushing.”
Was a hefty mortgage the reason Betsy worked alone in the kitchen? No capital for payroll? He cleared his throat. “I have a new project for you. Dig up everything you can on Melinda Johnson.” He spelled the last name. “Start in New Orleans. Make it top priority, and get anybody you need on it.”
“Is that all you’ve got? A name? I bet there are a million Melinda Johnsons.”
Quin took a deep breath. “She’s my sister.” The rest of the air left him in a sigh.
“Holy shit.”
“No kidding. Start with my adoption records and trace it back through the system. She was fostered with me, but ran away shortly after we were placed with the James. My parents have a file open with Trenton and Hart. Does that give you somewhere to start?” Peter and Maeve’s ongoing search for her had died with them, but he was sure there was plenty of information in the file. Twenty years’ worth.
“Absolutely.” The silence was loud. “You need any help down there? I haven’t been to New Orleans in years. One big party, right?”
The joviality in his voice was obviously forced, and Quin was touched. “Find her, and I’ll fly you down for the grand-opening masquerade ball.”
“Seriously?” He heard what sounded like two feet hitting the floor.
“You better not be sitting in my office with your feet on my desk. I have security cameras everywhere, you know.”
“Then I recommend you review the footage of me screwing your intern after the New Year’s party.”
“Maddie has more sense than that.”
“Unfortunately.”
Quin snorted and ended t
he call. Kyle liked to joke, but he was the perfect man for the job. He would leave no stone unturned looking for Melly.
Anger and grief, the toxic mix that poisoned his dreams, swept through him. When Peter and Maeve were searching, he hadn’t wanted them to find her, not for him. She’d left, abandoned him in foster care. The James’s had turned out to be amazing people, the answer to an orphan’s prayers, but Melly hadn’t known that when she left. She hadn’t cared what would happen to him. Tell your sister not to be a stranger. The old man’s words galvanized him. Now that Quin wanted answers, she wouldn’t be a stranger for long.
He dug into the work waiting for him on his desk, counting the hours until seven, when he could tackle his other problem. He’d warned Betsy about saying no. Hearing that word aroused his instinct to crush, control, and consume. It had been that way for as long as he could remember, and now that he had a clue to how he must have spent his early years, it made sense. Busking and counting up spare change at the end of the day would create a powerful craving to hear the word “yes” all the time.
He wanted a courtyard, and Betsy wanted a restaurant. Their goals weren’t mutually exclusive, but it would take a hell of a lot longer than two weeks to make them happen. He’d taken a good look around the dining room today. Updates were needed. More than updates, the ceiling was stained, some of the baseboards had buckled, and tiles had come loose on the older flooring behind the bar. The place was falling apart. She needed help, that much was clear, but she kept pushing him away. How could a woman be so perfectly receptive, even greedy in the bedroom, yet completely intractable out of it? What made her determined to limit their association? He planned to find out tonight.
…
Betsy stared at her phone. She had all of Quin’s numbers typed in, but she couldn’t bring herself to send him her address. The thought of getting ready to meet him while waiting for the doorbell to ring made her heart flutter, so she gave him the name and location of the restaurant instead. This was a sexual arrangement, and it was better to keep some distance between them.
At the sound of her mother’s voice in the bar up front, she slipped out the alley door. Undoubtedly, her mom had already heard Kate’s version of what had happened this afternoon, and Betsy wasn’t in the mood to talk yet. Her mother never took sides, but what was Betsy going to do if her mom really did want to keep the bar open?
She emerged from the alley and noticed a sign in the tea-shop window advertising a special on candied cranberry scones and gingerbread tea, reminding her the holiday season was over. Business was good while everyone was in the celebratory mood, but she was going to be in a world of trouble if everyone had spent their lunch money on Christmas presents. It was crucial to turn a profit over the next two months. She looked at the sign again. Madame Rousseau’s invitation had been in the back of her mind all day. Sure it was nonsense, but it would be nice to hear the stars were aligned in her favor, considering everything that had happened today.
She darted across the busy street before she could change her mind. The door was lighter than it looked, and she flew into the shop. A bell announced her precipitous arrival, but the dining room was empty. She shut the door and looked around, charmed by the antique-looking tables with spindly chairs. Colorful tapestries decorated the gold walls. The earthy scent of incense and black tea hung heavily in the air, a comforting presence. She walked toward the pastry case, belly growling.
The sound of a beaded curtain being drawn back made her look up from the mouthwatering array of cookies, scones, and muffins. Madame Rousseau greeted her with a wide smile. “Change your mind about tea?”
“I couldn’t resist your sign.” Before she could chicken out, she forced herself to say, “And I’d like to take you up on that reading.”
“Fantastic. I have just enough time before my next appointment.”
“Oh! I didn’t even consider that you might have other obligations. It always seems so…tranquil over here,” she finished, hoping Madame Rousseau wouldn’t recognize she’d been about to say dead quiet.
The other woman laughed. “It’s okay. The tea doesn’t pay the bills, but you’d be amazed how many people want divine guidance.”
No, I wouldn’t. “Usually I’m more of a stick-to-the-plan girl, but…”
“Say no more. Green, black, or white tea?”
“You pick.”
“It’s not my choice.” Her smile was firm but kind.
“Black,” Betsy finally said, figuring it would have the most caffeine.
“Pick a table. I’ll be right over.” A few minutes later, Madame Rousseau set a teacup next to her and an enormous dark chocolate cookie studded with milk chocolate chunks and white chocolate chips in front of her.
“Thank you.” Betsy glanced down, surprised to see the cup only held an inch of liquid. “Where’s the tea?”
Madame Rousseau’s pale red eyebrows shot up. “Did you really want to drink a cup of tea? You said you were a coffee person, so I put a fresh pot on to brew. You don’t need to drink the tea for me to do the reading.”
Betsy smiled ruefully. “I was going to make an exception. But no, I didn’t really want the tea.”
“I know.” She grinned back. “Coffee will be ready soon.”
“You’re taking awfully good care of me.” She guessed Madame Rousseau was in her early thirties and wondered if she had children. She seemed like the motherly type, and it was easy to imagine her baking cookies for kids getting off the bus, enfolding them in her arms and flowing skirts. Betsy stifled a sigh. Her school bus had dropped her off in front of Last Call, and she’d done her homework with a Shirley Temple and bar fruit in front of her.
“I do have a son,” Madame Rousseau said.
Betsy blinked. “Was I thinking that loudly?”
“I can sense thoughts if they’re tied to strong emotion and the desire to share.”
Betsy shook her head. “I’m not much of a sharer.”
“But you’re here, which means you’re planning to share something. Let’s see what it is.” She motioned at the cup. “Wrap your hand around it, close your eyes, and ask the question of your heart.”
Betsy wanted to know if Last Call would open for dinner. But in the darkness behind her eyelids, all she could see was Quin.
“Now open your eyes and spin the cup three times, full circle.”
“Clockwise or counterclockwise?” she asked, wanting to get it right.
“You choose.”
After three clockwise spins, Betsy sat back, and Madame Rousseau placed the saucer upside-down atop the cup. “Flip it. Carefully,” she admonished, although Betsy would have been cautious anyway, not wanting to wear the brew.
“Three more turns. Mind your question. Now lift the cup.”
She did, watching tea gather in the well, stranding loose leaves on the edge of the shallow saucer.
Madame Rousseau laughed softly. “I knew this was going to be interesting.”
“What do you see?” Betsy saw nothing but tea and soggy leaves.
“We’ve entered the new year. See that?” She pointed at a break in the leaves. “Big changes for you.”
Despite her inherent skepticism, Betsy felt anxiety stir. “Good change or bad change?” It didn’t matter. She didn’t like any kind of change unless it was part of her plan. “I hate surprises.”
“I see a man on a horse. Royalty. A celebration.” A teasing smile tilted Linda’s full lips. “Perhaps a handsome prince is headed your way?”
Betsy choked on the bite of cookie she had just shoved into her mouth, remembering her discussion with Quin last night. She swallowed hard. “More likely it’s one of the four horsemen of the apocalypse. Death, Famine, War… What’s the other one? Pestilence?”
“Conquest,” Madame Rousseau said absently, staring at the leaves.
“Well, I’m planning on turning Last Call into a successful café if it kills me, so pick a horse, any horse, I’ll ride it.” She heard the nervousness in her
voice but Madame Rousseau didn’t appear to be listening.
“Big, big changes…not changes coming down on you. You’re making these changes. Great opportunities. A new job, maybe?”
“I want to close the bar and open the café for dinner at night. That kind of job?” Betsy asked hopefully.
Linda glanced back into the empty tea cup, as if looking for backup. “I see two people dancing in the bottom of the cup. There’s a wedding in your future.”
Her heart slammed against her ribs. Only a fortune teller would see a wedding in two leaves stranded in a teaspoon of weak tea. “There is. Both of my best friends just got engaged. I’ll be dancing at a wedding in a bridesmaid’s dress before too long.”
Linda tapped the saucer. “It’s your party. Royalty is coming. I see lions standing on their hind legs and doves flying overhead.”
Betsy shook her head. Why had she come here? Lions and birds? Seriously? “Are you sure you don’t see ’gators and ducks? At least I could put them in a gumbo,” she joked.
Linda stood, making the bells ring on her skirt. “I’ll get your coffee.” She walked behind the counter and Betsy considered making up an excuse to leave. There was no wedding in her future, and the last thing she needed was subliminal fuel for her stupid fairytale fantasies. Quin was leaving, and she wasn’t going to wait around hoping he’d come back for a booty call. She scooted her chair away from the table, but the rich scent of roasted coffee beans wafted across the room. A cup of coffee would be delicious with the rich, gooey triple-chocolate cookie. She wavered long enough for Linda to return with two cups of coffee. The one she placed in front of Betsy held a touch of cream, exactly as she preferred.
“A storm is coming.” Linda sat and pointed at a swirl of leaves at three o’clock. “Will you batten down the hatches, shutter the windows, and stay? Or will you run?”
“I’m not leaving my family.” But she already had once, hadn’t she? Kate’s accusations burned. Her two years at school had been bliss, but she was paying for them now. She’d be paying for them for the rest of her life. Leaving New Orleans had given her a craving for adventure that could never be satisfied at Last Call. She shook her head to clear it. Her family needed her. Was she actually buying into this load of crazy talk about change? She wasn’t going anywhere.