NOT What I Was Expecting

by Tallulah Anne Scott

  “I did?” I asked trying so hard to remember what had happened last night that there was a very real possibility my brain could explode.

  “Sure. You said you were my Little Beignet, and I was your Sucre on top,” Luke explained trying to look innocent and wounded that I’d forgotten. He enjoyed it more than necessary and was unable to pull it off.

  I reached for the coffee mug he handed me and took a few slow sips. I needed both the coffee and the time to gather my thoughts. What had happened last night after we got back to the apartment? I remember Luke unlocking the front door. I remember being so tired I just wanted to go to sleep. I remember – nope, that’s the last thing I remember.

  I set the coffee down on the tray Luke had placed in my lap. “Whew,” I said shaking my head, very slowly this time, from side to side. “I think those Long Island Iced Tea’s hit me a little harder than I expected. I don’t remember saying that. Not that I’m not embarrassed enough by that, but ah, did I say, or ah, do anything else after we got back here?”

  Luke adopted his wounded look once again and said, “Well, let’s see.” He gave the impression of being deep in thought as he ran through last night’s conversation and/or activities in his head. “We came home. I offered to heat up your leftovers. You said you weren’t craving any food. I said, ‘let me make you some coffee.’ You said you didn’t want any coffee and started taking off your clothes. I steered you into the bedroom, pulled out one of the big t-shirts you bought for sleeping in, told you I’d wait in the living room, and asked you to call me if you needed anything.”

  I listened in horror as Luke went on with his narrative.

  “When you said, ‘Oh, Luke, could you come here please,’ I came in and found that you had removed every stitch of clothing and were sitting up in bed with the covers pulled back beside you,” he continued. “You patted the space next to you on the bed and said, ‘Come here, my Sucre.’”

  No, no, no, no, NOOO! Oh, the inhumanity! Long Island Iced Tea? I don’t think so. Why don’t they just call it Elixir of Satan? Since I was speechless from horror and embarrassment, Luke went on.

  “I said I didn’t know what you just called me, and you told me Sucre means sugar in French. You explained that you were my Little Beignet and I was . . . . ”

  “Okay, okay,” I interrupted. “I think we already covered that part. Luke, I don’t know what to say. That person you’re describing from last night is so not me. I mean, I realize it was me, but I do not ever act like that. Well, obviously, I can’t really say that now, can I?” I concluded softly.

  Luke’s big smile shifted into a tentative smile, full of concern. “Maggie, look . . . ,” he began, but I cut him off.

  “I’m so sorry, Luke. You must think – well, I don’t really want to think about what you must think,” I conceded.

  “No, wait. You don’t understand . . . ,” Luke tried to interject.

  “Oh, I think I understand, all right. It’s okay, Luke. I don’t blame you at all. I mean, obviously I threw myself . . . ,” I tried to tell him.

  “Nothing happened,” Luke interrupted.

  “Huh?” I declared, once again trying to impress him with my brilliant vocabulary.

  “Nothing,” he said very slowly, so that my poor, pickled brain cells could comprehend, “happened.”

  “But – but I was all naked?” I stammered.

  “Yes, but you had the sheet covering your – interesting parts. While I stood there trying to figure out what to say, you fell asleep or, I guess passed out would be more accurate. I slipped your t-shirt over your head, pulled up the covers so you wouldn’t get cold with just the sheet to cover you, and went to get a bucket to put by your bed.”

  Well, okay then. Wait a minute! My muddled brain was working slowly, but it was still working. What was slick and sexy trying to pull here?

  “The pillow!” I said accusingly. “What about the other pillow on my bed?” I asked pointing my finger at the tell-tale head imprint on the guilty pillow. “Who else slept in my bed?”

  “Yeah, I uh, didn’t want to embarrass you more than necessary, so I wasn’t going to mention that,” Luke admitted, looking slightly uncomfortable.

  AHA! So we did it, and then he lied about it. That’s worse than the fact that he took advantage of me. Yeah, I got that right. He took advantage of me. And here I was trying to be so kind about it and make sure he didn’t feel bad. The Slime. The Low-Life. The Jerk.

  After taking a moment to figure out how to put it delicately, Luke launched in, “After you barfed the first time, I saw that you barely woke up. I was afraid to leave you alone. I didn’t want you to choke when you hurled, so I slept next to you. On top of the covers, though, and I only touched you to hold your hair back.”

  He didn’t want me to choke on my own puke? How sweet was that? He held my hair? He’s an Angel.

  “You held my hair?” I asked with tears forming in the corners of my eyes. “That was so sweet of you. You’re very kind, and I’m such a mess.” The tears flowed in full force after that, which was just perfect, because I wasn’t sure I could embarrass myself further in front of Luke until the tears showed up to prove that I actually could.

  “No, Maggie, you’re actually very kind. If you were really a mess, you wouldn’t be staying down here to help me find out what happened to my Uncle Barney and Ms. Eliza. Does that sound like something a mess would be doing?” Luke asked softly, either because he knew how incredible his voice sounded when he spoke softly or out of respect for the tuba player in my head. “You just had a big day, you hadn’t eaten enough, and the alcohol hit you a little hard, that’s all,” Luke rationalized in an attempt to comfort me. “It could have happened to anyone.”

  “Not to you,” I sniffed and snorted, as I looked around for a box of tissues, which of course wasn’t anywhere in sight.

  Once again, being the knight in shining armor and saving the day, at least in my eyes, Luke reached under the utensils on the breakfast tray, pulled out the napkin, and handed it to me. My hero. And he smelled good, too. I smelled like puke. That thought made me feel embarrassed, undesirable, and kind of stupid, but mostly it made me angry.

  “You didn’t get drunk. You didn’t say stupid things you regret. You didn’t throw yourself at someone who’s so – soooo,” I drug out the word in an attempt to delay long enough to find a word insulting enough to fit the way I felt about Luke at that moment, “someone so perfect.” I guess I told him.

  Feeling I hadn’t exactly cut him to the quick, I continued, “Do you have to do everything — to be so defectless? Because let me tell you, as a flawed member of the human race I can honestly say we don’t appreciate your kind.”

  Eew, getting a little loud there and hurting my little hangover.

  “Look, Maggie,” Luke said softly, but at that moment my cell phone rang.

  I grabbed my purse, which was propped on the night stand, and started digging for my cell phone. When my hand came out of the bag with the phone, I answered the call and said a little too loudly, “WHAT?”

  “Um, Maggie?” CeCe asked tentatively. “If this is a bad time, you can call me back later.”

  “CeCe, no, this is fine. How are you?” I asked all fake happy and chipper.

  Luke, noticing he’d lost my attention, got up and left the room, closing the door behind him.

  “Um, I’m fine, Maggie, but you sound kind of . . . .”

  I cut CeCe off as soon as Luke closed the door. “Oh, CeCe! Things are so awful here now.”

  “What’s wrong? Did Luke turn out to be a jerk? A pervert? A sex maniac?” CeCe wanted to know. “Lock yourself in the bathroom, let me call Fry, and we’ll be there with the shotgun. You tell that sex fiend he has 20 minutes to clear out before we get there. Unless you guys had a good time? Is that it? Did you fall for him like I said you would?”

  CeCe is the reason I don’t usually drink anything stronger than wine. She makes me dizzy without alcohol.

  “No, no.
He was being so wonderful, and things were going so well, until last night. Now everything is ruined.” I bellowed into the phone.

  “Oh no, he didn’t!” CeCe yelled. “He forced himself on you?”

  “No, he was a perfect gentleman,” I whined trying to find the words to tell CeCe how lame I’d been.

  “Well, that’s good, Maggie,” CeCe exclaimed, all irritating. “Why are you so upset? If he was a gentleman with you, he obviously thinks a lot of you. What’s the problem?”

  “You don’t understand,” I began. “I got stinking drunk last night, and he took care of me without trying anything the least bit sexual.”

  “He should be horse-whipped,” CeCe said flatly. “Maggie, honey, what is it you’re upset about? It sounds like he really cares about you.”

  “That’s what I’m so upset about,” I practically yelled in CeCe’s ear. “He was so sweet, and do you know what I did? I threw myself at him last night, which was bad enough, but did I leave it at that? Oh, no. I started off this morning by telling him off.”

  “For what?” CeCe asked.

  “For being so wonderful,” I said slowly, as if her comprehension was impaired. “Haven’t you been listening to me?”

  CeCe let out a heavy sigh and said, “Maggie, have you had your coffee yet?”

  “Only a few sips,” I admitted grudgingly.

  “Okay, here is what I need for you to do. Drink some coffee, go take a shower, drink some more coffee, and then call me back. Now go!” Having listed my next several tasks in no uncertain terms, CeCe hung up.

  I sat there for a minute trying to decide if I was mad at CeCe for ordering me around that way.

  Oh whatever, she’s right so I’ll let it slide this time. I downed the rest of my coffee, and had a few bites of toast. Luke had left the tray he brought in earlier, but I didn’t feel scrambled eggs or bacon would be a good idea. I might not remember puking, but my stomach was threatening to relive it if I wasn’t careful.

  I slowly eased myself out of bed, into the bathroom and started my quick shower. At least, my original intention was to have a quick shower before going in and apologizing to Luke. Once the hot water started working its magic of bringing me from the walking undead back to the living, I hesitated to rush it. Maybe if I stayed in the shower long enough, I would think of a smooth way to apologize to Luke. When the hot water started cooling off, I decided the rejuvenation was over, even though nothing brilliant in the apology department had come to mind.

  I was lucky to have found my way to the shower considering the size of my headache, but I hadn’t brought any clean clothes in with me. I noticed a clean, folded microfiber robe on the shelf next to the towels and decided it would be okay to borrow it, as long as I returned it clean.

  I found a hair dryer in the drawer next to the sink and dried my hair until it was only partially wet.

  I padded out to the kitchen where Luke was sitting, drinking coffee, and reading the newspaper. As I walked toward the coffee maker, Luke stared at me with an expression I couldn’t read.

  I gave him a tentative smile to let him know I had morphed out of the emotionally challenged lunatic he’d encountered earlier. Now for the apology.

  “Um,” I began, “thanks for the coffee and breakfast.”

  Okay, that wasn’t an apology, but I was working my way up to it. There was so much to apologize for that I was finding it kind of daunting.

  “Oh,” Luke started hesitantly, “you’re welcome. Are you, uh, feeling better?”

  I turned my smile to full strength and launched in. “Yes, Luke. I feel much better. I’m really sorry about last night – and this morning. I don’t drink very often and usually stick to wine whenever I do, so my alcohol tolerance level is pretty much nonexistent. I guess I’m not really telling you anything you didn’t already figure out for yourself. I discovered how a hangover screws with my emotional stability when I was away at college after a night of drinking with friends. That night was followed by a morning of memory loss, emotional upheaval, and a headache the size of all outdoors. The good news is I learned a very important insight into myself. I am not a good drinker. That is a lesson I have carried with me all these years, and I didn’t think I would have any problem with a couple of drinks, since two is usually my limit, and I don’t know what happened last night, because I remember only two drinks and that should have been . . . . ”

  “I’ll stop you there, Maggie,” Luke interrupted shaking his head slowly. “You don’t owe me any apologies. You’ve done nothing to apologize for, and I’m afraid this was my fault. I should never have let you have that drink without making sure you understood what was in it. It didn’t occur to me you would down it so quickly until it was too late. As far as anything you said last night or this morning, it’s all good.”

  Luke stood, walked over to where I was doctoring my coffee and poured a fresh cup into his nearly empty mug. “I take it this rambling thing you’re doing this morning is also part of the hangover repercussions?” Luke asked smiling and nudging me with his arm as he poured.

  How did he do that? I was so dreading this conversation, since it required my attempt at apologizing, and he had just taken responsibility for my questionable behavior and lightened the mood in the room in a matter of seconds. I felt a weight lift off of me and realized my smile, which I’d had to force earlier, was now genuine. Oh, I was aware that last night was my fault, but the fact that he didn’t want me to feel bad actually did make me feel much better.

  “No,” I replied in answer to his question. “The rambling was a result of my embarrassment, not my hangover.”

  Luke smiled a little and said, “You shouldn’t be embarrassed. You’re charming whether drunk or sober. You’re just funnier when you’ve been drinking. I was just sitting here thinking about some night, years to come, when we’ll be sitting around talking about that night in the French Quarter when we were . . .” Luke stopped smiling, stopped stirring his coffee, and glanced over at me looking kind of uncomfortable.

  He looked embarrassed. He looked as if he was the one, for a change, who’d said what he was thinking and regretted it. Wasn’t that my signature move? My turn to rescue him.

  “I’m so glad I could amuse you,” I said lightly and grabbed for a subject change. “I guess I should go ahead and call Ms. Eliza’s brother. Hopefully, he’ll know something that will point us in the right direction.”

  “Sure,” Luke exhaled as he spoke, his relief obvious. “I’ll get the number and the cell phone. Is your cell still in the bedroom?”

  I nodded as he was leaving the kitchen.

  I took my coffee and Luke’s, which he’d left on the counter, set them on the table, sat down and made myself comfortable.

  When Luke came back and joined me, I placed the call to Joseph Parker. Mrs. Parker answered the phone, and after exchanging pleasantries she put her husband on the phone.

  “My wife filled me in on your conversation yesterday,” Mr. Parker began, obviously a no nonsense man ready to get down to business. “She said she didn’t remember details, so let me give you a condensed version of the story from the beginning. Then, if you have questions, you can let me know.

  “1892, Rupert Frost did a painting for my grandmother called Marianne’s Garden. In 1925, my grandmother died and the painting was inherited by my father, her only living child, Jeremiah Parker. 1963, my father died, leaving the painting to my oldest brother, Joshua, with a stipulation that if the painting is ever sold the profits are to be distributed evenly between all of my father heirs. Then in 1969, Joshua was murdered, gunned down in his own home. There were no witnesses, and they never caught the killer, but I’ve always had my suspicions. That’s why when the painting came to me, as the second oldest after my brother’s murder, I decided to play it safe.

  “I told my younger brother and sisters that I sold the painting, and would give them each their share of the sale price. My brother Jacob wasn’t happy that his share was only $20,000, but he too
k it, and I never heard from him again. My two sisters, Harriet and Eliza, were furious with me for selling it and wanted no part of their share of the money. You see, they felt the painting should have stayed in the family as part of my grandmother’s legacy. That’s the only reason I told them the truth.

  “I never sold the painting, and I gave Jacob $20,000 out of my own money. I explained to them that I couldn’t prove it, but I suspected it was Jacob that killed Joshua and that the painting was the reason behind it. He’d been talking about getting rich from that painting since we were teenagers. If he kept killing us all off until he inherited the thing, he would have made a lot more money than what he ended up with.

  “Harriet and Eliza offered to help me keep the painting hidden and will it to my children after both of them were dead, since they didn’t have any kids themselves. We thought it would keep us all safe and still keep the painting in the family. Unfortunately, when Harriet died, she mentioned the painting in her will. I specifically told her not to do that, but apparently she did anyway. I warned Eliza not to keep the painting on her property, and she didn’t. She gave it to Barney Becnel for safe keeping. She said he was the only one she would trust with her secret.

  “I never should have kept her letter. She let me know the painting was safe and that Barney was taking care of hiding it. When someone broke into our house, they apparently took the letter, and Eliza’s was their next stop. Thanks to that letter, they didn’t have to keep her alive if she wouldn’t tell them where Barney hid the painting, since they knew who to go see next — Barney.

  “You see how this whole thing is stacking up? At least, my take on the situation is that my baby brother is somehow behind this. He found out what was in Harriet’s will, and now he knows we still have the painting. Of course, he’s in his seventies now, so he probably got one of his no count kids to do his dirty work for him.”

  Since Mr. Parker seemed to be winding down, I asked exactly how many kids Jacob fathered.

  “Two,” he replied, “and that’s two too many as far as I’m concerned. One girl and one boy. Since they come from murdering scum, they did their worst to impress that father of theirs. Last I heard, Jacob was living in Phoenix, Arizona. His wife left him, and his daughter’s husband left her, so they were living together there. I know the son was arrested several times for dealing drugs. I have no idea where he or the girl ended up. I used to keep in touch with a cousin who kept tabs on that part of the family, but she died a few years back so I have no recent information. Until now, I didn’t know I needed to worry about that sorry brother of mine.