by Nat Burns
“Genevieve is the owner?”
“Umhmm. Curiouser and curiouser. She could cause all kinds of ruckus at Fortune Farm.”
“You got that right,” I agreed.
We turned and peered along the alley again. “If we go down there, she’ll surely see us,” I mused.
“True and there’s nothing you can do at this point. Come with me to Ainchez’s salon,” Solange suggested.
“Ainchez Paulus?”
“The one and only.”
“If I do go, can I meet this new love interest of yours?” I was curious about him, I admit. I wanted to compare him to the parade of other pretty boys she had gone through.
“Of course. He is just the sweetest bebe. You will love him. Come with me, Denni. You can’t be a spy all the time.”
I looked at Solange’s expertly decorated face and felt nostalgia fill me. What times we’d had—Patty, Solange and me.
“Do you remember the time we were chased from Courtenay Park?” I asked suddenly.
“And the gendarme, bless his fat little heart, couldn’t keep up with us?” Solange giggled low in her throat.
“And how many times we’ve closed Bay Sally’s?” I grinned at Solange.
“Almost every weekend,” she replied.
“How is Ainchez?”
“She’s good. Old.” Solange shrugged and fiddled with the strap of her handbag. “I know she’d love to see you.”
I sighed and glanced one more time down the mostly empty alley. “Okay, I’ll come for an hour or two.”
Chapter Fifteen
Ainchez Paulus lived on Rue Lafayette in a large Victorian-style mansion left to her by her husband Georges, who died suddenly back in ’92. Ainchez, of an artistic bent, had, as long as I can remember, daily opened her house and heart to a wide variety of people, mostly the unusual and not easy to pigeonhole types. One could find painters, sculptors, writers, educators and politicians at her daily salons. I was just one of the dozens of young people she had helped network as we tried to survive, confused and mostly alone, in Brethren.
Mounting the six cracked marble steps leading to the back stoop felt natural and soothingly familiar.
“Mimpot, look at you,” Solange exclaimed when a small dark-eyed, dark-haired woman opened the door.
“Ma’am insisted I dress for the salon today,” Mimpot said as she nervously fingered the skirt of her formal black and white maid’s uniform. Her beautiful, black-rimmed eyes darted curiously across my features, trying to place me.
Solange hugged her as we passed by. “Why, you look wonderful! It really does look good on you, missy. There’s no need to feel embarrassed about it.”
“Hello there. Good to see you again,” Mimpot told me, graciously gesturing that I should enter. I’d seen her there many times—before she began working for Ainchez and was still simply one of the guests. She was an artist—in oils, if I remembered correctly. I could tell she didn’t really remember my name although she treated me with welcome familiarity. She led us along the lavish, antique-decorated hallway and into the glorious, decadently appointed ballroom that had been filled with furniture and turned into a parlor for the salons. Time had faded the accouterments, but I felt no less pampered by the dimming of the silks.
“It’s Denni Hope,” I told her quietly as she ushered us in. “I used to come here a lot, oh, about four, five years ago.”
“Ahh, yes,” she said, nodding. “I thought so. Welcome back.”
Ainchez was reclining on the striped satin divan against the far wall, as was her wont. Her tiny Yorkshire terrier, Jazzman, perked his ears and studied our threat potential, even emitting a short warning bark and growl. Today there were only a dozen or so people gathered for Ainchez’s salon, or as she called it, her daily forum for interesting people. Seeing so many familiar faces was surreal and gave me a sense of just how slowly things do change in the Deep South. It was like the entire area was on South Sloth Time, which crawled along as slowly as the gators prowled the bayou for a rich dinner. I shook hands and shared brief pleasantries as I slowly followed Solange into the room.
“Denni, is that you? Truly?” Ainchez raised up to peer at me. I was dismayed to see that South Sloth Time would not preserve the regal blond forever. Solange was right; Father Time had indeed had his way with my old friend.
“Yes, it’s me,” I answered, leaning to kiss the furrowed parchment cheek. “How have you been?”
“I’m an old woman, my love, and that’s all there is to say about that. Now listen, you may know some of these ruffians, but you probably haven’t met our new parish chairman, Taylor Morrissey. His family moved here from over Beulah way at the turn of the century, but he’s been away and then recently returned to take over his uncle’s farm out there next to John Clyde’s.”
I nodded to yet a few more familiar faces as I turned to shake Morrissey’s hand. Taylor Morrissey was a large, jowly man, just the high side of middle age, who dressed in stereotypical political style even in the swampy Louisiana heat—a three-piece suit, a bowtie and a colorful silk tapestry vest. He eyed me studiously, as if discreetly measuring my value to his office.
“Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” he said.
“Taylor is one of our more prosperous gentleman farmers, Denni,” Ainchez added.
“Now, Ainchez, I appreciate the gentleman title, but I’m not so sure about this prosperous business.” This comment brought a smattering of polite laughter. “I’m a struggling farmer just like the rest of the community.”
“Then you must be aware of your neighbor’s troubles of late,” I responded, watching him keenly.
“Yes, so unfortunate, a real run of bad luck. I know Dodson Price must be just spinning in his grave.”
“Can you think of anyone who would be out to hurt Fortune Farm’s business?” I asked.
He looked genuinely surprised. “No, I can’t think of a soul. Price has been successful, shipping hay up to Tennessee and Kentuck, and it’s food for some of the finest racehorses. Plus Dodson always had a commercial contract for his cane. There’s just no competition around here. Maybe up north it’s different, but people around here respect one another’s livelihood.”
“But it was my understanding that you grew hay as well.” I had to admire his smooth delivery. He was good.
“Oh no, Denni. His sheep are prize-winners at the county fair. For two years running, I might add,” said Ainchez. “Y’all come sit down. No need to stand. Mimpot, bring that lemonade over here.”
I took a seat next to Morrissey, who had lumbered over to the leather sofa. Solange sank gracefully into the Queen Anne chair on my left.
“So, sheep,” I mused. “I bet the heat is brutal on them.”
Morrissey agreed right away, nodding as he sipped clear liquor from an etched tumbler. I accepted the sugar-rimmed glass of lemonade mixed with Southern Comfort that Mimpot offered.
“It is that, but we shear them high two times a year and they do all right. Thrive even, if you graze them properly. This year’s been a hard one, though.”
He crossed his legs and pampered the crease of his trousers.
“How do you mean?” I asked.
Solange stirred, and I could tell she was growing bored with shoptalk. Her attention span was about as long as a mosquito’s.
“Well,” he said with a heavy sigh. “The grazing fields are off at our place this year. I’m not sure what the problem is. We’ve moved over to the north pasture and are fertilizing and watering the south, trying to get it back up to par.”
Solange elbowed me roughly, and I looked away from Taylor to see a young, willowy, very pretty blond man enter the room. He was dressed in country-western couture, from his pointy-toe leather boots up to his button-down denim shirt. He even wore a bolo tie with a huge turquoise nugget in it. He saw Solange and his visage practically glowed with delight. He approached impossibly quickly, kneeling next to Solange and staring up at her with adoring crystal blue eyes.
Solange tittered like a schoolgirl and touched the boy’s shoulder. “Rainy, my darling boy, I want you to meet my old friend, Denni Hope. She’s from up near Washington, DC.”
Rainy swiveled his head so that he was looking up at me with a beguiling, adorable expression. “Denni Denni. So pretty,” he said. “Isn’t she pretty?” he added, looking toward Solange.
Solange pretended offense. “And here I thought I was your beauty,” she chided, pouting.
Rainy smiled and, if possible, made his gaze even more adoring. “Ah, you know it’s you, and only you, I have eyes for, my beautiful one.”
“Solange, you two do carry on so,” Ainchez said with a disdainful sniff. Jazzman begged to be held, and she swept her legs to the floor and sat up to cuddle him closer and offer him tidbits from a small saucer.
Taylor Morrissey shifted, clearly uncomfortable with Rainerd and Solange’s cooing and goo-goo eyes. I decided to rescue him.
“So, Mr. Morrissey, what do your other neighbor, the Thibideauxs, produce on their farm?”
“It’s Taylor, young woman, Taylor, and I think they grow cane and some rice. At least that’s what it looks like when I drive by. They seem to keep to themselves now that Thomas and Dona have passed.”
“They say Thomas’s girlfriend, Baby Wood, still lives there and takes care of Jimmy.”
Taylor nodded as he poured a good bit of his drink down his throat, tipping his head back. “I hear he’s a bit tetched. Is that true?” he asked.
I nodded. “That’s what I hear. Made weird by his military service.”
Taylor nodded sympathetically. “Probably war of some kind. Nothing good has ever come from war, as far as I can see.”
I nodded my agreement. “So…Taylor. Have you been approached by any developers who want to buy your land?”
Morrissey swung sharp eyes toward me. “Developers? No. Has John Clyde been talking with developers?”
I was taken aback by his vehemence. “No, sir, Ammie Mose was just telling me that she’d heard something about them wanting land around the Sabine.”
Morrissey grunted. “Land here’s not much good for other than farming. Developers can’t build in this area because the ground’s too unstable. Don’t get me wrong, I’d love to make this part of Louisiana more in demand, more progressive. I just don’t know as we’ve been gifted with resources that other people might want.”
Solange spoke up, one hand still entwined in Rainerd’s golden hair. “Developers! Who ever heard of such?”
Chapter Sixteen
“Denni? Do you remember Clara Whitehead? Judge Whitehead’s wife?” Ainchez asked during the conversational lull that developed.
I leaned forward so I could see the wrinkled but perfectly made-up visage of Clara. I did remember her well. She and I had discussed philosophy and religion late on many an evening when I lived in Brethren. Always impeccably dressed as befitted a judge’s wife, Clara also had an impeccably educated mind as well.
“Clara. Good to see you, hon.” I reached across Taylor’s ample girth and we held hands briefly in greeting.
I looked around the crowded room, wondering who else I had overlooked on my way across the room. I saw Myra Peabody, the hefty, heavily bejeweled wife of James Peabody, who ran the discount store out on 82. She was locked in conversation with Tyde Roman, the retired drama teacher from the Brethren Consolidated High School. His thin, lithe form was dressed in tight jeans and a long silky button-down shirt, untucked. Worn brown fisherman sandals covered his feet. He’d grown and cultivated a short white beard since I’d last seen him.
A familiar group of matrons played gin rummy at the table in a far corner. Their muffled laughter and comments helped liven the salon as much as the soft, lilting music Ainchez’s stereo system offered.
Other, younger, adults milled about, more than I would have thought proper for a weekday workday, but then I realized suddenly that school was probably over for the day. Ainchez always had a penchant for teachers and students.
“Did I hear you say something about Price farm?” Clara asked, leaning forward so she could study me with calm brown eyes.
“Yes, ma’am,” I replied. “They are having the devil’s own time. Someone is wreaking all kinds of havoc over there.”
“Megs died, you know,” Clara informed me solemnly.
I nodded. “I know. I was so saddened to hear of her passing. She was like a mother to me when I lived here.”
“A good mother, she was,” Clara agreed, leaning back. “Did I ever tell you about little Patty’s arrival?”
I turned toward Taylor, and he and I, as well as Rainy, Ainchez and Solange, all watched Clara. We all loved a good story and we could tell Clara was gearing up for one.
“No, ma’am,” I replied eagerly. “I don’t believe you have.”
“Well,” she began, settling the pleats in her skirt with busy fingers. “This is how solitary the bayou families used to be. When I was a girl, you often didn’t see anyone for months at a time. Traveling the bayou was hard in those days unless you were a man in a flat bottom boat or some brave ones what traveled by canoe. It certainly was not like it is today with roads lacing all through the hamlets and powerboats zipping through the bayous.”
She paused and studied Taylor with a raised eyebrow. “Was it that away when you were young, Mr. Morrissey?”
Taylor cleared his throat and re-crossed his short legs. “Why yes, ma’am. I remember coming over this way to visit my uncle driving a four team of horses. And let me tell you, riding a buckboard, even with good seats, all that distance was not a pleasant feat.”
Clara laughed and touched her chin as if recalling something. “Indeed, I remember those days. My papa had what was called a Concord Coach. Was a big old thing with padded seats. Originally it had a top on it but it weathered in the sun and damp here in the bayou so Papa removed it and we rode in the open bottom. It was a pleasant way to travel. It might have been slower, but you could see so much more than you can see in the cars of today.”
Taylor nodded, and I jumped in before he could lead us farther down the rabbit path of memory. “You were telling us about Patty?”
Clara blinked slowly. “Oh yes. Well, going anywhere in those days was a chore, so we all kept to ourselves and only got together at harvest time or on the church holidays, you know. So anyway, little John Clyde was about two years old, I guess, and we knew we’d be seeing him at Christmas, so of course I went out and bought him a little trifle, a book or some such, and then we all met at St. Michaels, and lo and behold, here’s Megs with John Clyde and little Patty. She was just a little old wrinkled-up newborn, but none of us had had an inkling that Megs had been in the family way again.”
Clara shifted and crossed her legs. “And of course I felt terrible that I had no present for the new bitty one, and I gave Megs a good piece of my mind for not letting word out. Turns out the baby had come a little early all of a sudden when she was visiting her mother and father over at their retirement home in Florida.”
Ainchez chuckled and scooted Jazzman to one side. “Well, can you just imagine how her parents felt when she birthed that baby while visiting them?”
Everyone laughed politely.
“How did John Clyde feel about having a baby sister?” I asked, smiling at the images Clara conveyed.
“Well, he adored her, of course. He still thinks the sun rises and sets in that little gal’s face,” Clara replied.
“They’ve always been close,” I agreed.
A tall, thin man appeared in the archway, Mimpot at his side. It was Judge Whitehead.
“Judge Whitehead, welcome. Won’t you come and have a drink with us, sir?” Ainchez said.
The judge smiled and fanned himself with the straw boater he carried. “Well, I do thank you, Mrs. Paulus, but I’m afraid our daughter Freda is demanding we join her at the club for dinner. Otherwise, I’d be delighted to take you up on your offer.”
Clara stood and fetched her handbag from the
end table. She moved around the coffee table and leaned to buss Ainchez’s cheek. “Until tomorrow, my darling.”
“Give that daughter of yours my love,” Ainchez told the couple. “And tell her to stop being such a stranger.”
After the Whiteheads left, a silent ripple passed through the gathering and people began leaving in sporadic little clumps. It was coming on to the dinner hour and everyone was very cognizant of not wearing out a welcome. We all sensed Ainchez’s energy was fading a bit as afternoon turned into evening.
Solange, Rainy and I left together. Solange and I had taken the tram to get to Rue Lafayette and after it dropped me off back downtown, I breathed a real sigh of relief. Solange was fine to be around, but Rainy’s obsequious, needy fawning had started getting on my nerves. I quickly ran into several stores, doing a bit of necessary shopping, and I reconnected with Patty just before five.
The ride home in Patty’s car was somewhat tense. I really needed solitude to think about what I had seen concerning Yolanda and the pretty woman. I recalled everything I could during lulls in conversation. I did not…could not…broach it with Patty, but I felt as though my head was going to explode. The more I thought about it, the angrier I became. And ever more certain that Yolanda was betraying Patty in some way.
Chapter Seventeen
After we arrived home, I realized I needed to talk with John Clyde, and so I told Patty I was going to take a walk before dinner. Suppose Yolanda and this thin woman actually were working together to ruin Patty? John Clyde needed to know. It didn’t make sense, but so much in life and passion did not. It would appear as though Yolanda only stood to lose if Patty’s business failed. Unless that woman and Yolanda planned on ruining the business for another reason, to gain something else, somehow.
Were they working for Taylor? A ruined business is a much better buy financially than one that is flourishing. Did Taylor secretly want the Price land? It was prime real estate, worth a fortune by anyone’s reckoning.