Putty in Her Hands

by Lynn Shurr

  “You look fine in green and yellow, cousin,” he gloated, showing shiny white incisors, a new dental bridge in place.

  “I see Nonc finally paid for your repairs. A reward for doing his dirty work?”

  “Oh, I would have done it for free. My pleasure to see you grovel on the ground instead of up on your high horse. I fell out of favor when I torched the Queen without running it by the old man first, but now I’m back.”

  “You won’t be there for long because you are a screw-up, NuNu.” What was he doing, taunting the guy before his ribs knit? Remy walked on, but NuNu inserted his booted feet on the first rung of the pole fence to hike himself over and intercept his cousin.

  Remy forced himself to keep the same measured pace he’d set in the beginning. Show no fear to a Broussard. His goal: get to the door in one piece.

  NuNu fell in beside him. “Would have damaged you more if Slick let me. He’s my daddy, you know.”

  “You aren’t much like him. Slick follows orders to a tee and keeps his promises, good or bad. That’s why he’s the right-hand man out at the Barn. He’ll take over someday—but not you.” Why did he keep picking on the man? Not wise.

  NuNu intentionally stepped into his path, jostling his sore ribs. Remy retaliated with a sharp elbow to the man’s skinny gut. He paid for that action with a twinge of pain.

  Before NuNu could strike back, Melody appeared in the doorway. “Why Cousin NuNu, how nice of you to visit. I’m afraid Remy isn’t up to company yet after that unfortunate fall, but perhaps later. We’ll have you over for dinner another time. Wouldn’t that be nice?” His mother could drown people in pure tupelo honey when she wanted. They floundered in the sweet stickiness.

  NuNu appeared flummoxed by an elegant lady treating him nicely instead of crossing to the other side of the road when she saw him coming. “Uh, yes, ma’am. Guess I’ll be going now.” He retreated across the fence as if she’d set the dogs on him.

  “Great, my mother had to save me from that scum. I wonder what Julia would think about that?” Remy dashed the sweat from his forehead.

  “I’m sure she would have done the same, but perhaps in a different manner. Julia Rossi seems like a scrapper to me if she can succeed so well in a man’s world. Come inside. Get some rest. Eat another orange.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  His mother left precisely when she swore she would. Remy spent most of his convalescence on his third-floor balcony taking a tan he thought might help with the bruises, living on his grandmother’s cooking and his mom’s stock of fresh produce. He worked on sketches of his conception of what the Queen should resemble when fully restored. As his ribs and shoulder mended, he’d gone to the drawing board to design the plans for the new kitchen, of which he was especially proud. Maybe Julia had been right. In his heart of hearts he’d wanted to save the hotel.

  He’d rebuild the annex with brick and plaster compatible with the older building: slate floors, a dressed-up metal fire door leading into the hotel and a wide outer door for deliveries and easy escape in case of smoke and flames. All the appliances and the cooler were the most up to date he could find, along with excellent illumination for the staff.

  Remy wrangled with the staircases, not the wide one in the lobby where couples could pass, but the two dark corridors leading from the ballroom floor. Good that the building had two to meet the fire codes, though the lighting would have to be considerably improved and the steps reinforced. Hell, they’d have to pull all new wiring anyhow along with replacing the plumbing to turn some of the rooms into baths. Guests today rarely wanted to queue up to brush their teeth and use the commode in the two tiny spaces set apart for their needs on the third floor. Maybe he could fit in a small, European-style elevator there instead. As for the fourth, in the Twenties, two large suites with full bathing facilities had been carved out of the single rooms. The last owners dwelled there in decaying splendor with a grand view. The deep, claw-footed tubs had rust stains and inground dirt now, but they should consider restoring the space to Art Deco glory instead of going full-nineteenth century throughout the building. He’d run that idea by Hartz—and Julia.

  His eyes turned toward Alleman where the recently planted bamboo had yet to reach the height needed to give Mr. Getty his privacy. With the rain and heat spurring the bushes along exactly like the sugar cane, they’d reach full growth by fall. For now, Remy kept an eye on the place for Julia’s return. He wished she lay beside him, tanning and preferably naked, giving her insight on his ideas.

  Turning his head in another direction enabled him to keep track of NuNu’s comings and goings. Not wanting to be caught off guard again, he took his walks after the old junker his cousin drove left for the Barn, or elsewhere. NuNu didn’t act on orders. He fueled himself with jealousy. His anger rattled around in his brain like a loose nut in the metal bed of a truck. Remy needed to be cautious, ready for a next time.

  Remy considered his sketch of the ballroom, adding the plaster pilasters Julia had mentioned and some potted palms along the walls. Four chandeliers hanging from the restored coffered ceiling lit the space and subtle recessed lighting the walls. A couple waltzed across the parquet floor, she in a hoop skirt, he in a Confederate uniform, perhaps the last dance before the place became a military hospital in 1863. The woman, dark hair piled high, resembled Julia, and the man bore some likeness to himself. He wondered if she would notice.

  Movement at Alleman caught his eye. Not Marv, not Julia, but Todd crossing the lawn on long legs, like the bayou herons. What a letdown—but where Todd trod, Julia would not be far behind. Remy packed his sketching supplies and slipped the drawing into the portfolio. No, he would not call asking for an audience too easily refused. He’d simply drive to Alleman and lay his dreams at her feet now that Black Diamonds no longer stood between them. He’d apologize for calling in the night, begging her to come to him, begging her to stay. He’d—he’d better get into his truck and do that immediately before he decided against it.

  At Alleman, the place bustled with activity. Paperhangers applied paste to long strips of period wallpaper. Painters moved up and down the staircase lugging cans, brushes, and rollers. If seeing Julia’s wonderful finish coat covered gave him a pang, he wondered how much more it must bother her, but she was not among the workmen. Remy moved to Marv’s domain in the kitchen where coffee urns lined the counter and trays of donuts filled the table. No Julia, no Marv, no sign of the uncles. Surely, she hadn’t left the final touches in Todd’s neophyte hands?

  He continued out the back and surveyed the yard where crepe myrtles big as small trees bloomed in white, purple, and shades of pink, reliably putting on a show in the heat because the species had been brought to Louisiana from India centuries ago. Standing by the tubs of blue Lily of the Nile on the rear verandah, Remy shaded his eyes and found the person he least wanted to see next to NuNu: Todd, holding a clipboard like the man in charge.

  Six weeks of New Orleans cooking had put some meat on his skinny bones and manual labor built up his muscles. A light tan coated his formerly pasty complexion like paint laid over plaster. Remy’s mind flashed to his own fantasy of nude sunbathing with Julia and back again. The silly soul patch was no more and revealed a deep dimple in Todd’s chin, exactly the kind of feature women loved to caress with their thumbs. Often enough, his sexual partners had traced the deep grooves that bracketed Remy’s mouth, which he stretched into a smile.

  The scar on his upper lip tugged a little, but Slick had spared his teeth as promised. Remy moved toward Todd and held up his fist for a bump. “Todd, my man, lookin’ good. New Orleans must agree with you.” What exactly was he doing here? Sophisticated Remy Broussard shook hands and did not bump fists. Lookin’ good, my man? Did he actually want to curry favor with Todd to get on Julia’s good side again?

  Todd held onto the clipboard and did not return the bump. His light eyes, somehow less watery than before, maybe due to less computer time, squinted at Remy. He stood more confidently�
��like a man who’d slept with a woman way out of his league. “You have a head injury too?”

  “No, no. Got the all clear from Dr. Bourgeois a few days ago. Is Julia around? I’ve been working on plans for the Queen and want to show them to her.” Remy fingered the small bump on the bridge of his nose where the cartilage had separated. The doctor said he could have that repaired with rhinoplasty, but for the time being he possessed no desire for another swollen nose and blackened eyes. Still, rubbing it had become a habit he should break.

  “No, she’s not. I’m in charge of the punch list until she returns. I’m supposed to write down any detail not up to the standards of Regal Restorations.” Todd hugged the clipboard to his slightly broader chest.

  “What, no uncles to take over?”

  “Sal and Sammy stayed in New Orleans. They don’t like the interior design work, too girly.”

  “I see. Don’t worry, I won’t fight you for Mr. Getty’s punch list.” But he would for Julia. “Do you know where she’s gone? Over to the Hartz place or maybe Jane’s house?”

  “Oh, no. She said she had a craving for the local beignets. It’s not like her to hurt Marv’s feelings after he made a special run to the donut shop for us. She’s acting sort of odd today.” Same as you, Todd’s tone implied.

  “What day of the week is it? Sorry, I kind of lost track of time while I recuperated.” His urgent tone did nothing to reassure Todd about a probable head injury.

  “Wednesday. Why does it matter?”

  “No matter. I’ll come back later. You take good care of that punch list now.” He must get to town before bayou water and lime mixed together in a volatile combination.

  ****

  Prior to returning to Chapelle, Julia considered her wardrobe carefully. Exactly what would an Italian sexpot wear? Tight jeans—she owned those, one pair so snug they defined the crack in her butt and were rarely worn. Other than that, she appeared to have only work clothes, more jeans, tons of tops, business suits, and a few gowns of the little black variety that could be dressed up or down for art openings or cocktails with clients. She finally settled on a brilliant red top that hugged her breasts and might show a little cleavage if tugged down far enough. Jules liked her breasts. Not overly large, they looked fine and stayed out of the way. Despite what Patty said, they jiggled very little. She’d have to wear a push-it-up-and-together bra to create the right effect.

  Shoes, another problem. Work boots, sneakers, pumps with practical heels, and some stylish black ones with thinner, higher heels she wore with the dresses. A pair of the last must do. As for accessories, how about the crucifix on the silver chain her Aunt Franny gave her for confirmation, unworn and still in its box? Was it threateningly Italian enough? She needed hoop earrings, clip-ons since Julia remained the only girl in the Rossi family who’d never gotten around to piercing her ears. She had a pair somewhere from a Grease-themed movie party. They went with the very tight jeans. Found them buried under other costume jewelry like an unappreciated treasure and added them to the pile. Italian sexpot costume complete. Julia bagged it and stashed it in the motorhome’s storage compartment.

  As she sat outside Pommier’s Bakery adding a slash of red lipstick and enhanced eye makeup with the aid of her truck’s rearview mirror, Julia chomped on the gum she felt added to her character and pondered if what she was about to do might not be the wisest course. She’d lose the support of the Historic Preservation Committee, but Remy had signed the contract with Hartz. Technically, Patty’s group had no say in the deal anymore, but Julia would miss some of its eccentric members. If his grandmother’s hold over Remy was as strong as she thought, he might look elsewhere for restoration services. So be it. She’d get over him. She didn’t need a wimp in her life.

  Remy’s battered face haunted her during her stay in the city. She tried twice to reach him. He did not pick up. He’d been out of his mind that night and possibly didn’t remember services rendered. While he clearly didn’t want to be left to his grandmother’s mercies, family took care of family in both her world and his. Besides, while confident in bed, Julia wasn’t too sure about her nurturing abilities.

  Seldom ill, she tended to push through any pain, menstrual or other, like everyone else on the job. Sure, she’d patched up Sal and Sammy a few times, put an ice pack on a black eye or a butterfly bandage on a cut, but Remy’s injuries went way beyond that. If she hadn’t heard the cutting remark as she left, most likely she’d be thanking Patty for nursing him back to health today instead of plotting to make a scene all of Chapelle would hear about and remember. No one insulted Julia Rossi. She’d fired men for saying less.

  Julia opened her door and took a minute to roll up her jeans, showing off more leg, and discarding the larger, baggy T-shirt she’d worn to escape Alleman. She fluffed her hair, already bigger than usual with the humidity, and not subdued into a tail or topknot, put her heels to the ground, and clipped into the bakery, shutting the door hard enough to set its bells jingling wildly. She received the attention she wanted. Patty’s friends, occupying most of the tables in imitation of their leader, stared her way. Julia breezed by Patty and Pammy as if they did not exist and added extra sway to her hips. “LeJeune, two dozen beignets to go, please.”

  The hairy-armed baker goggled as if he didn’t recognize her. “I have some coming out of the fryer in a minute, ma’am—Miss Julia?”

  “Grazie mille,” she answered in her minimal Italian. “I need to say hello to someone.” Jiggling as much as possible, she moved toward Patty’s table and held out her arms. “As you can see, the Italian sexpot is back in town. How is your grandson doing? Or did you smother him to death?”

  Though Patty’s cheeks rouged with more than high blood pressure, she managed to spit a little venom in Julia’s direction. “Now you’ve let us see you as you really are, a low-class temptress trying to lead a man back to New Orleans by his—his man parts.”

  “I doubt Remy has a dick left after being in your care for six weeks.”

  Gasps from a riveted audience filled a momentary silence so complete the sizzle of the deep fat fryer emitted the loudest noise.

  Patty took time to prepare her next volley. “You abandoned him in his time of need. Of course, I had to step in and take care of my grandson. My group has continued to guard the Queen in your absence. If the Broussards pushed Remy down the stairs, what might they do to the hotel while you went off to party in the city with that young intern of yours? I know you can’t help yourself. It’s that hot Italian blood.”

  That set Julia back so far she ignored the last smear on her character and heritage. She’d thought the Queen safe once the contract went into effect, but Patty knew her kin better than she did. The wad of gum in her mouth seemed to grow larger, stopping her words. She removed it and stuck it under Patty’s table. “Thank you for that. Your greatest strength is jealously guarding things. You all but shoved me out of Remy’s house.”

  “It is what I do best because I know this town. I protect what I love. You are no better than my daughter-in-law forcing my son to move to Mandeville to cover her infidelity.”

  “Oh, I don’t think he was forced so much as didn’t want to practice law here with his father,” Pammy said, realized her mistake, and shoved a pecan tart into her wide maw.

  LeJeune Pommier rushed over to hand Julia two white bakery bags and hustle her out of his shop. She dug in her cleavage for the bills to pay him. They’d gone limp from her sweat.

  “Ah, I’ll get your change.”

  The bells sounded again. No one took their eyes off Patty’s table.

  “Keep the change. No worries, Patty. I don’t need a wuss for a lover.”

  “Oh, Remy told her to leave after two weeks. He really hurt her feelings,” Pammy said.

  Patty turned on her cousin. “Shut up, dimwit. We don’t need another whore in our family. As for you, Julia, if the tight top fits, you have to wear it. You’re no better than a—”

  Julia didn’t answer.
She opened one of her bags, selected a beignet mounded with powdered sugar from the top and crammed it into Patty’s open mouth. It left her adversary’s red face white as plaster dust and stoppered her nasty words. Jules turned on her high heels to stride out the door—and ran straight into Remy’s chest.

  Patty spit out the donut with the aid of a backslap from Pammy. “You saw what she did to me, Remy!”

  “You’re tough. You can handle it.” He hooked his arm around Julia’s elbow and escorted her, clipping along on her heels, a little roughly toward the door.

  “That’s right, throw her out!” Patty shrieked. “Send her back to New Orleans.”

  He got Julia out on the sidewalk and slammed the door hard enough to make the little bells sound like the church chimes. He gripped her shoulders. “So you think I’m a wuss.”

  “You didn’t call or answer mine.”

  “Because my grandmother took my phone, and I was in no shape to buy another. Let me get one thing clear, I am not a wuss.” He swept her hair back from her ear and plucked the hoop from her lobe. His lips replaced it, sucking. Julia felt the small scar pressed against her skin. He worked his way down her neck, bending her back over his arm, possessed her mouth, and let her up only when breathless.

  “Follow me to the Black Box. I have plans for you. Nice outfit by the way.”

  “Just something I threw together to annoy Patty.”

  “Save it for another time. We have a big audience. Let’s get out of here.”

  Julia glanced toward the bakery window. Faces, some avid, some scandalized—Patty Broussard’s among them—pressed against the glass. LeJeune Pommier craned to see from the back of the crowd. Julia nodded. At this very minute, she’d follow Remy Broussard anywhere.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Remy kept checking his rearview mirror to make sure Julia followed and did not veer off toward Alleman. She stuck to his bumper like an experienced tailgater all the way to his doorstep. Once inside, Julia cupped his face and ran her finger over the slight scar on his lip and the small bump on his nose. “I wouldn’t have these fixed. They make you look tougher.”