by Smith, C. P.
Nic stared at the ceiling, the shadows from the fan blades spinning like a carousel as he lay there thinking. They gave him something to look at while he tried for the millionth time to figure out what had gone wrong. What had he missed? Why couldn’t he save his little girl?
The only person who had those answers, he’d buried over a year ago, along with a piece of his heart. Blonde hair, big blue eyes and a smile that would melt your heart, Chelsea was daddy’s little girl—his heart and soul. Rolling to his side, her picture on his bedside table, Nic reached out and touched the frame.
“Ma petite fille est gone,” Nic whispered to his daughter’s picture. Chelsea stared back at him with smiling eyes as she laughed at the camera. He’d taken that picture on her fourteenth birthday, and by her fifteenth, she was moody and had no need for what was left of their family. He and his wife had divorced two years prior, and Chelsea and his son Nicholas spent their time between two homes. In his heart, he knew the divorce had been the catalyst for her behavior. And if he could do it all again, he would have suffered through his wife’s midlife crisis, and the men she brought into their bed, if it would bring his daughter back. He’d worked long hours to provide for his wife, to keep her happy, but in the end, Kat had sought attention elsewhere. No house big enough, no wardrobe large enough had kept her faithful, and he’d walked away.
“Mon Dieu.” Nic bit out, “Look what my pride has caused.”
Closing his eyes, he thought back to the last time he’d seen his daughter alive. Thin, broken, angry that he’d put her into a rehab clinic for a month—she’d spat at him for leaving her there. He’d had no idea how bad her addiction was until he found her passed out in her room; a needle stuck in her arm. She’d spent three days in the hospital from that almost overdose, and then he packed her off to rehab, kicking and screaming the whole way. The last words out of her mouth had been “I hate you, Papa.” He knew she didn’t mean it they’d always been close, but at that moment, he figured she did. He’d given her that and told her “I know you do ‘tite ange, but Papa loves you even if you do.” Then he’d kissed her forehead and tried not to look back at her anguished face, but he had, and it killed him to see her that way.
“It was for the best,” the doctors had said. “Private facility, one of the best in the country,” they’d told him, but his angel was smart, so smart. She’d found a way out, called a friend who had drugs and then she’d taken too much. After one week at the clinic, they’d called to say she’d escaped. Six hours of searching had ended with a knock at his door from the parish police, confirming his worst fears. His baby was gone.
Breathing hard from the memories, his baby’s ashen face, relaxed in death, was forever etched in his mind. It drove pain, like a hot, sharp knife, into his chest with the faintest memory. He could see her lying on that cold metal table, and he’d wanted to fold her into a blanket, and wrap her in his arms like he did when she was a baby. Nic brought his fists to his eyes and tried to rub the vision away. “Jesus, how did this happen? How the fuck did I let this happen?” he asked the room. But, just like every night he laid in the dark, since his daughter’s death, the only answer he ever had was the same. He’d been working when he should have been watching.
Chapter Two
Nic’s eyes opened as the sun broke across his face, shining like a spotlight behind his lids. The memory that his daughter was gone from this world always took a few moments to penetrate when he first woke. In those few precious moments, all was right in his world. The knot that coiled like a snake, and was his constant companion, slowly knitted its way into his chest the instant he remembered. There were days, if not for his son that he might have gone mad with the guilt.
Looking at the clock, he knew he needed to get up, get Nicky up, and ready for school. Rolling to his side, sitting on the edge of the bed, he turned his eyes to his daughter’s picture and then whispered to her sweet face, “Papa’s sorry, ma ange, more than you’ll ever know.” Then he rose from the bed, exhausted as he had been for the last year and headed to wake his son.
“Dad, I have soccer practice after school, so you need to have mom pick me up at five,” Nicky, full of energy and so much like his father in looks, reminded Nic. He was big for his twelve years, turning into a man-child already. He was tall, with black hair and dark brown eyes like his father’s and their French ancestors before them. Chelsea had gotten her blonde hair from his ex-wife Katherine. She wasn’t Louisiana French; she was a Southern Belle from South Georgia when he’d met her in college. She’d been a beauty queen, and he’d been her prince charming. Married fifteen years before they divorced, they’d been happy once, but Kat had grown restless in New Orleans.
With her family back home in Georgia, and her friends scattered all over, she’d had a hard time adjusting to a new city. Kat was from a small town, and used to being the center of attention he’d finally deduced. Her southern charm, that Georgia Peach she’d portrayed herself as seemed too wither for some reason in the big city. Neither of them was from New Orleans, but Nic had been offered a job after graduation with one of the largest architectural firms in the city. Since Nic was from Baton Rouge, he’d traveled to the New Orleans many times, so it seemed as natural as breathing to fit in here. He’d been a year ahead of Kat, and she’d had to finish her studies before they could be married. So, Nic had moved here to New Orleans and set up house for his future wife, but they’d waited for her to graduate to plan their wedding and start their lives together.
He should have known then; the evidence was there from the beginning. Kat had made one excuse after another why the wedding needed to be delayed, but Nic was too damn busy working, to give it much thought. After a year and a half of delays, he put his foot down. “Sugar, marry me now or walk away, it's that simple.” She’d married him six months later and in a huge family production, she’d moved to New Orleans, all but crying the whole way.
At twenty-four, he’d thought it was adorable his Southern Belle was that homesick. At thirty-nine, when he’d come home early to surprise Kat for missing her pot roast the night before, he’d found her in the arms of her tennis coach. It was so fuckin cliché he’d actually laughed, and what had surprised him more—he hadn’t beaten the shit out of the guy—he simply wasn’t that upset.
After the initial shock of moving and being newly married wore off, Kat had gotten restless quick. Since Nic came from old money and plenty of it, she'd gone about spending it on whatever made her happy. The strong-willed, southern girl, who seemed to hold the world in the palm of her hands, turned into a spoiled wife of leisure. When the kids came, she’d wanted a nanny to help raise them, he’d said no. She’d wanted a housekeeper and cook because her outside obligations took up her time, again he’d said no. Hell, to his estimation, if she could have hired a hooker to sleep with him, she’d have asked for that too.
After growing up in a home where his father adored his mother, Nic had wanted the same for his life. A woman who would stand by him, fight with him, crave his touch above all others, but mostly, love him unconditionally. He’d realized too late that Kat wasn’t that woman. She was so self-centered she did absolutely whatever she wanted—damn the consequences and Nic. So, when she’d done what she’d done, and friends came forward with tales of other men, he was done and filed for divorce.
Nick sighed, not looking forward to calling Kat to remind her of the schedule change. Since their divorce, and then the loss of their daughter, Kat had been in reconciliation mode and used every opportunity she could too spend time with him. He knew the loss of their daughter was his fault, but to his estimation hers too. If she’d put their family first instead of her own selfish needs, their marriage might have turned out differently.
Pausing before phoning her, Nic needed to steel his temper before talking to her. His fuse was short these days, and no one lit it quicker than his ex-wife did. Looking at the clock, he knew he was out of time, so he picked up his phone and dialed.
“Hey there,
sugar,” Kat purred when she answered.
“Nicky has soccer practice until five today.”
Though Nic had more than enough money to pay his ex-wife’s alimony, he still worked long hours several days a week. Since Hurricane Katrina, his expertise in historic renovations was in high demand and his schedule was full. He tried to work from home more days than not, but meetings with clients dictated he spend several days a week in the office. So, Kat agreed to pick Nicky up from school on the days he was in his office and took him home with her until he got off work. Her recent change in attitude also meant that if a job ran over, he could switch days with her easily instead of losing a single day with his son. Nic wished she’d been this fucking accommodating in their marriage then maybe things would have turned out differently.
“All right, I’ll just pick him up at five and maybe the three of us can have a family dinner together just like old times. How does that sound, Nic?”
“I got plans, Kat, but thanks for asking,” Nic replied abruptly and then listened as his ex-wife huffed down the line. He had no doubt, if he were standing in the same room with her, he would have seen her stomp that little foot of hers in frustration. Kat was tenacious when she wanted something, but what she wanted was never gonna happen. Their family back together was impossible, for one crucial reason.
“What you got planned, Nic?”
“Takin’ my boy to eat crawfish at Bayou.”
“I’d love a plate of crawfish,” Kat hinted.
“I’m sure you would, Kat, but this is my time with Nicky. You can take him on your own time.”
“You’re just darn stubborn, that’s what you are,” Kat whined but Nic just ignored her as he always did when she got like this.
“I gotta go, Kat. Thanks for picking Nicky up, I’ll see you at six.”
“But—” Nic didn’t hear her final words, he’d already moved on to what was next.
“Right, that’s settled. Did you get your bag for soccer? How about your books for school?”
“Packed and ready,” Nicky mumbled around a mouthful of toast.
“Then let’s hit the road.”
Both Nicholas Beuve’s, one tall, dark and broken, one growing tall, dark and full of life, headed out the door of the condo Nic owned. Nic looked at his son, all arms and legs, and could see the man he would become. He hoped with time the sad expression he saw on his son’s face whenever he looked towards his sister’s room, would vanish. But, until that time, when he was with him, Nic would make damn sure his world was filled with love and attention. He would not make the same mistake he made with his ‘tite ange. He would be there for his son and teach him to be a man, but most of all, to talk to him about anything that was bothering him before he turned to drugs to ease the pain. He realized the hypocrisy of his thoughts and scoffed at himself. How was he gonna teach his son how to handle pain and disappointment when he knew with certainty, on his nights without Nicky, he’d be found with a drink in his hand? He was doing exactly what he’d tell his son not to do—drown your sorrows and hide your pain from the ones you love.
Peering out the window of her run down, one room, rat infested, pay by the week apartment, Hope checked and double-checked to make sure no one was sitting in a car watching her building. Rose had scheduled her to work the kitchen, and she wanted to leave in plenty of time so she could walk slowly and see if anyone followed her. Whenever she left whatever place she was staying, she always brought her most important items with her in case she caught sight of a tail. She needed to be able to run at a moment’s notice, so she kept a bag packed with a change of clothes inside. Any cash she’d scraped together before she left was now gone, but when she’d had it, she kept it close as well and other than a few books she had for reading, she kept the bag light for a quick getaway.
All was clear, no cars outside with passengers watching, no shadowy figures hiding in doorways waiting for her, so she grabbed her bag and the blue cook’s coat she wore at The Bayou and headed for the door.
Her apartment was in the French Quarter and within walking distance of The Bayou. The building was old, set in between two homes boasting beautiful architecture with French, Creole and American design. The houses were painted in stunning colors that reminded her of the spices she used cooking at The Bayou. Old homes with cast iron balconies and walled in gardens that were an architectural gift from the Spanish, a tour guide had said when she first came to the city, and she wondered who lived in them. Were they happy families or single people just starting their lives?
She’d taken time to wander the city since arriving in New Orleans, feeling secure when she’d first arrived that she hadn’t been followed. She’d decided Bourbon Street was her favorite. There were bars, fortunetellers, gift shops and glamorous hotels all on the same street. The whole area gave her a sense of wonder and excitement, and the thousands of tourists who came daily helped her feel anonymous. A person could get lost here, never to be found, she’d thought. It was a perfect place for someone like her who needed to hide.
She walked past a bakery that had just received a shipment of flour and was pumping the light powder down a large hose into the basement of the bakery. The air around the shop was littered with a billowing cloud of white. She walked through it, not caring if it got in her hair, her blonde locks would cover it. But for some reason she wanted that pure powder that created something tangible, a form of sustenance, to coat her, like the white of it or the purity of it might wash away the dirt that always seemed to be just under the surface of her skin.
Making her way down Frenchman’s Street, the heart of the bar district, Hope entered The Bayou through the front door and went behind the bar and into the kitchen. She saw Big Daddy inspecting a bag of crawfish and waved to him as she went past. She’d worked here for two days, and Big Daddy had made sure on both nights, she had eaten before she went home. Between the food and sleep she was getting, the dark circles she’d been living with for weeks were clearing up, and she was starting to look like herself again.
“T-Hope! Where y’at?” Maman Rose called as Hope tucked her bag into her locker. The Bayou, located in an older building, had been renovated sometime in the 60’s by Rose’s father. He’d built an employee area for breaks and a few lockers to store coats and purses. Plaster walls over the old brick kept the heat from the kitchen out when the door was closed, giving the employees a bit of a break from the heat. Hope opened the door and looked for the older woman whose bright eyes and loving heart were going a long way to making her feel safe. Finding Rose at the entrance to restaurant and bar, Hope walked to the woman while she buttoned up her coat.
“Sorry, I was putting my stuff away.”
“No problem, Cher, I just wanna let you know we short on da’ floor tonight. I need you to take orders.”
“Me? But I’ve never been a waitress before.”
“Dat’ no matter, I train you myself. Everyone come on crawfish night; we need hands on deck we do.”
Hope paused before answering. Her eyes grew wider at the thought of being in the public eye where anyone could see her.
“I promise no one will touch you here,” Maman Rose said on a whisper and Hope believed her. Besides, how could she refuse the woman who had been so kind to her? She couldn’t, so she nodded her head and looked down at her blue jacket.
“You want me to change?”
Rose tossed a Bayou T-shirt at her mumbling, “Dat' figure will look good in my shirt.”
Hope held up the brown shirt; it had a black and white picture of the bar on the front, with a neon-green sign proudly saying, “The Bayou, shoes or shirt not required.” Hope smiled. She loved the shirt and the laid back friendly bar it portrayed.
Big Daddy, who’d been watching the exchange, walked over to Maman Rose as Hope headed to the back to change. With a puzzled face, he told Rose “We not short tonight old woman.”
“Pas du tout,” she replied, looking for all the world like she had a secret.
“The
n why?”
“Because, my Cajun friend, love conquers all.”
He watched Rose saunter back into the bar and stood there wondering what in the hell that woman was going on about. Love may conquer all, but it doesn’t get his crawfish boiled. He needed to be short in the kitchen like he needed a hole in his boiling pot.
He heard the kitchen door open again and Rose yelled out in her loud Cajun accent. “Cher, put some makeup on while you at it, you make more tips you.”
“Okay, Rose,” T-Hope shouted back and Big Daddy just stood there shaking his head. Dieu, that woman, she has a love-match on her mind all right, and if the guy she’s got her eye on for ‘tite ange had any clue what he was in for, he’d give in now and call a priest. That woman doesn’t stop until a ring is on the finger, Big Daddy thought. “Bon Dieu, avoir pitie!” Big Daddy hooted.
Chapter Three
The Bayou is known for its crawfish. Big Daddy didn’t boil them too long; it was more like a hot soak, slow, allowing the meat to absorb the Cajun spices and then he’d pull them out just as they sank to the bottom of his big pot. He loved cooking those feisty crawfish, full of attitude, ready to latch onto a finger if he got too close. Opening an onion bag full of the pissed off critters, he dumped them into his oversized sink and started rinsing them, getting them ready for the boil.
While he washed them, Hope walked out of the employee break room, her blonde hair down and makeup on her angel face for the first time since he’d met her. Rose wasn’t kidding when she said Hope would look good in the bar’s T-shirt, and from what Big Daddy could see, it was a size too small, as well. Nevertheless, she wore it well, and if he weren't at least fifteen years older than she was, he’d have a mind to come calling on her himself. Big Daddy grinned as she walked out of the kitchen and into the bar, ready for her night of slinging beer and crawfish, and if Rose had her way, a little love-match on the side.