by Linda Joyce
Biloxi rose and paced. “Do you understand the explosion that could take place? Your mother materializes out of nowhere, just in time for the wedding. Then you want to change who represents you as best man? All so close to the wedding. It’s a slap in the face for my brother. My mother will be so insulted. Grandmother Elise will be so disappointed.”
“I’ll tell them. I’ll shoulder the responsibility for this.”
Throwing up her hands, Biloxi shouted, “You don’t understand. The minute after you tell my mother, Hurricane Deidre will be on the phone calling me to demand to know why I didn’t warn her. I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t. Damn it to hell! Is all of this worth it? I just don’t know anymore.” She stormed upstairs. She didn’t want to be a widow before she had the chance to be a bride.
Chapter 3
“Stop it,” Biloxi groaned the next day. Her hands went to her thudding head. Nausea pooled in her stomach. Her elbows hit the dining table at Fleur de Lis. But her mother and aunt kept on as though she’d not spoken. “I’ve had enough,” she said, but they weren’t listening, and she was drowning in their continuing conflict.
Yesterday after the fight with Nick, she’d gone alone at dusk to the cemetery to have a few quiet words with the Old Aunts, hoping for a sign, hoping for a moment of divine guidance. But after leaving the sanctuary of that peaceful place, her grief burgeoned greater than before. She cried most of the night. Sleep eluded her, playing hide-and-seek with shadows of the night.
Nick chose the couch until early that morning. He’d said he heard her crying and came to hold her, but nothing more. Curling up to him, she finally drifted into a deep, but fitful sleep, too short with a blaring alarm at six thirty a.m. Then they barely said a word to each other before leaving to start their workday. And they still hadn’t resolved the issue of who would be his best man. Damn if she’d bring it up to Momma and Aunt Macy now.
“As mother of the bride, I think I should have a say in the final seating arrangement,” Deidre argued.
“As wedding coordinator with years of experience,” Macy fired back, “handling many successful wedding and other events—”
Reluctantly, Biloxi had agreed to, and now regretted, one last review of every detail of the wedding. She’d made most of the wedding decisions on her own, which irritated Momma and insulted Aunt Macy, a noted expert on nuptial events.
Biloxi shook her head. Not even squawking from two of the most important older women in her life would change her mind about what she wanted for the wedding and reception. She had waited an extra nine months for the privilege of marrying Nick at Fleur de Lis. But that didn’t make refereeing the two women any easier. Stepping between them to broker peace ranked up there with stepping into a boxing match between two contending prizefighters. She loved them but wanted to shoot them.
“I’ve had it. It’s my wedding. I want silver candelabra and bouquets of spring flowers on every table. I already arranged it with the Rent-It-All place and the florist. I don’t care about the seating arrangement as long as Nick and I sit together. Work it out between the two of you.”
The well-meaning pair responded to her outburst with wide eyes, mouths gaped in the form of an ‘o’.
Too bad. Enough was enough.
She grabbed her empty glass and started out the door.
“What’s wrong?” Deidre and Macy’s voices joined together sounding innocent of their crime.
Biloxi turned back to them and scowled. She refused to dignify their question with an answer. As if they didn’t know! Any response she’d offer would be met with gang-style unity. It was their modus operandi to wrestle for control.
“I can’t take the bickering. Any. More.”
Maybe Branna’s idea of a wedding in Vegas needed more consideration.
Biloxi headed for the kitchen. A snack and a glass of sweet tea before tackling the stack of bills would help her frayed nerves, that and the comforting silence of the office.
“Greta, I need relief.” She walked into the fragrant scent of shrimp and grits. Her mouth watered.
“The only reason they pick at you is because they can’t get their way,” Great said, stirring a pot on the stove. “Are they ready for lunch?”
“I’m not sure if handing them utensils is wise. Who knows what bloodletting may occur. Smells yummy in here. I’m not eating with them.” She thumbed in the direction of the dining room. “Now they’re arguing over my something old and something new. It’s my wedding day.” Biloxi filled her glass with sweet tea and sipped.
“I’ll bring you something to eat in your office.”
“Thanks. Something bland. Maybe just grits. Nice to know you’ll leave your new kitchen for me.”
“Honey, you know, I’ll always take care of my girl, but I do love my kitchen.”
The heart of their home, the kitchen, the place where Greta created magic that offered comfort when they had no other amenities after the storm, was the first remodeled room once the exterior of the house had been secured. Repainted cabinets, new subway tile backsplash, refurbished wood flooring, and new appliances. Prying Greta from her new kingdom required energy most of them didn’t want to invest, especially when she put out the finest food for miles around. Nick was often the first one in line when Greta served.
“I love you. You’re the only sane woman in this house.” Biloxi blew a kiss.
“Oh. I almost forgot,” Greta said. She went to the new bookshelf displaying her cookbook collection. Plucking an envelope from between two tomes, she handed it over. “It’s addressed to Mrs. Biloxi Trahan. Odd. No return address. It has a wax seal, letter T. Rather mysterious.”
“Did it come by messenger of some sort? There’s no stamp.”
“No, Camilla brought it in when she came over for coffee. She found it tacked to the back door.”
Biloxi paused and ran her finger over the raised spot on the paper where the tack must have been. “Strange. Expensive stationery, though. It’s probably a reminder from the landscaper. He’s into posh and refined kind of things. So froufrou and dramatic”
“I was up at five a.m. I didn’t see anyone. No workmen around at that hour. If there’s a problem, let me know.” Greta opened the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of hot sauce.
With the envelope in one hand and a glass in the other, Biloxi made her way to the office in search of quiet. The once small space with built-in shelving, original to the house, doubled in size when workmen removed the wall separating it from the sewing room. The sewing machine, dress forms, and other supplies had been stored on the second floor in a large closet. As soon as she married Nick and moved out, she agreed to turn her old bedroom into a sewing space for Greta. After all, Branna had a new baby, and with any luck in the future, she would, too. Greta sewed as well as she cooked and enjoyed making her own creations. Baby clothes now topped her list.
The larger office allowed Biloxi to handle operations for Fleur de Lis, her photography business, and the launch of Fleur de Lis Café. No one dared bother her when she sequestered herself there—anyone in the family feared her putting them to work.
She glanced at the list on the desk, and just looking at it triggered weariness. Months and months of restoration. Months and months of people around all the time. When would her life return to normal?
The list of minor repairs to complete before the wedding hadn’t shortened. With each item checked off, some other little detail came to light. If her luck held, the list would be completed before she walked down the aisle, but she held little hope of that level of perfection.
The important items: a dress that fit, no tripping down the stairs, and Nick at the altar with the minister. That was as perfect as the day needed to be.
Closing the office door, she soaked in the quiet and placed the envelope on the desk—a flat door stretched across two short filing cabinets, useable space until the antique mahogany one returned from the refinisher. The handwriting on the note was unfamiliar. Neat. Scrolled. Femin
ine. Unease pricked the outer edges of her mind.
“Focus, Biloxi,” she said aloud.
Plopping into the rolling chair, she scooted to the bookcase and pulled out a white binder trimmed with pink ribbon. The Book. She dropped it on the desk. It bumped. The sound started her headache back into gear. With her elbows on the desk, she massaged her temples. A getaway might solve everything. Nick could fly them anywhere. Maybe somewhere old-fashioned like Niagara Falls. Or the wilds of Alaska. Any place far away to escape the torment of family—maybe Jared’s family ranch? Camilla raved about it all the time, she was even threatening to return there for the summer since the café wasn’t yet ready to open.
Biloxi’s gaze landed on the envelope on the desk. It stared at her. A disquieting unease from unanswered questions about Nick’s missing mother bubbled up. Her poor fiancé needed resolution. He’d waited years to find her. A very sad testament about family.
After deeply exhaling, she opened The Book. The first page folded out displaying a checklist and timeline. Behind that, pictures of bridal bouquets, table centerpieces, bridesmaid dresses, tuxes, everything for her wedding she’d been collecting since Nick proposed more than a year ago. Her June third wedding day was less than a month away. Only two things remained on the to-do list—gifts for her attendants and a wedding gift for Nick.
Stumped, she again considered a present. What to give him? She racked her brain. He needed nothing. Wanted nothing. He was a man content with his life. Extravagance wasn’t his thing. She couldn’t afford a Rolex watch, and good thing, because he’d never wear it. She could hear him now, “Not practical when delivering a calf or puppies. Not practical when fishing or working on the house.” Maybe a new Stetson or a new pair of boots? No. It had to be something unique, just like him.
He’d left early that morning for his clinic to gather supplies, and then hit the road, making house calls on some of his larger clients. They joked and called those days ‘big days’—appointments with horses, cows, and a few goats. She pictured him in his truck, windows down, belting out songs and singing along with the radio. He was the most calm, content, and sexy man she’d ever encountered. And he photographed well. An added plus.
She missed him whenever he didn’t make it home for lunch. An ache from missing him welled in her chest. A need to hear his voice urged her to call him. Her fingers reached for the cell phone in the drawer, but she stopped short. The next time they talked, she had to make him understand he couldn’t change his choice of best man at this late date. All the changes to their life since the storm overwhelmed her. She just couldn’t handle one more. Especially one that threatened to produce major ripples within the family. Besides, it’s not the groom’s prerogative to change anything. That right belonged solely to the bride.
“No. That argument can wait. I need to hear him call me chèr.” It would help wash away some of her weariness.
Picking up the phone, she noticed the screen showed a missed call. She played the message. Happiness sprouted inside her just hearing his voice.
“Hello, chèr. What say I take you for dinner at our favorite spot? Call me.” The man had her wrapped in the most delicious knots. His husky voice turned her insides liquid. She smiled. Tonight she’d surprise him when he arrived home with a picnic in bed. Po’boy. Abita beer. Zapp’s chips. And of course kisses…and more for dessert.
“Hey handsome,” she whispered in her sexiest voice while recording a message for him. “You pick up oyster po’boys, and I’ll take you to my favorite picnic spot. Guess what’s for dessert?”
Placing the phone back in the drawer, she eyed the envelope. Curiosity had a magnetic pull. Who had delivered the envelope? Someone skulked around Fleur de Lis unseen? Couldn’t be the mailman. Mail service remained spotty since the storm. She had personally taken an updated wedding invitation to the Madisonville cousins when it came back marked as Undeliverable.
“Knock. Knock,” Greta called out. “Please open the door.”
Biloxi moved, giving access to the bearer of lunch. Greta moved past her and placed the tray on the desk.
“You haven’t opened it yet?” Greta asked, unloading the bowl, spoon, and napkin.
“Something about it makes me…I don’t know, scared. I’ve been carrying around this uneasy feeling.”
Greta scoffed. “Of what?” She planted her fists on her hips. “What’s going on?”
Biloxi sighed and plopped into the chair. “If you’ve got a minute, I’ll tell you everything. Maybe it will help me put it all into perspective.”
“I’ve got time.”
She began with arrival of the grandmothers—Grandmother Elise and Suzette—finishing with Nick’s offer at mending fences with dinner that night.
“Do you really think his mother’s been found?
“More like she’s found him. The photo was taken in New Orleans.”
“But this letter is addressed to you. I’ll bet it’s from her. The T must be for Trahan.” Greta pulled a chair close and sat. “I’m here for moral support. Open it.”
“I don’t know…”
“Open it!”
Slicing through the paper with a letter opener, Biloxi shuddered at the sound. She paused and glanced at Greta. Once opened and the contents read, she couldn’t go back. Pulling the paper from the envelope, she stopped. “No,” she said, “you read it.”
“It’s not addressed to me. Go on,” Greta urged.
Apprehension rippled. The tempo increased inside her. “I don’t know…Maybe I should wait for Nick. Wait and read this with him. He’s the Trahan in the equation.”
“Quit stalling.” Greta stared down her nose. “Go on.”
After taking a deep breath and letting it go, she began to read:
Dear Miss Biloxi,
Please pardon my familiarity, however, based upon the engagement announcement I read in the Times-Picayune last August, I believe you’re now married to my son. I’ve waited as long as my patience would permit. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Catherine Trahan. I am still legally married to Nicholas’s father.
I am reaching out to you, asking with desperation for your help. I throw myself on your mercy, one woman to another. I want to see my son. I’m sick. Cancer. Please don’t misunderstand, I’m not imminently at death’s door, but the illness has made me face my failings and past sins.
My greatest regret in life is allowing someone to take Nicholas from me. I have made amends as best as I’ve been able for my past, except to my son. I do not seek to intrude, but if you would help me reconnect with him, it would bring me great peace if the eventuality comes.
After living for years abroad, and assuming a different name, I have returned to New Orleans. I now reside on Royal Street. I would be ever so grateful if you’d consider meeting me for coffee and allowing me a chance to explain, with the hopes that you will aid me in setting up a meeting to once again see my son face to face. You may contact me through Chantel Gilbeau.
Your humble servant,
Aurélie Dubois
aka Cat Trahan
“What!” Biloxi’s hands shook. “Is the woman crazy? Nick doesn’t need anyone’s help to meet his mother. But of all people, Chantel. No!”
“What are you going to do?” Greta shook her head.
“Cat’s been gone from Nick’s life since he was ten. He suffered so much as a kid because of his parents. Yet before reaching out to him, she’s in touch with Chantel—and that witch hasn’t told Nick? How dare she!”
“Don’t jump to conclusions.”
“How can you say that? She wants me to speak to Chantel to make an appointment to meet her? Absolutely not. Never!” Jerking out of her seat, she paced the room. “Of all the nerve.” White-hot anger seethed through Biloxi. “No.”
“She can’t know about your situation with Chantel.”
“Just when I thought I might be able to trust her, thinking the past was behind us—after all, she did help a few times in the garden since the storm—n
ow this. How long has Chantel known of Cat’s whereabouts?” Waves of anger punched from her gut to her throat, burning on the way up. She sipped ice tea, hoping to dampen the mounting rage. “This can’t be happening!”
“Sit,” Greta ordered.
Biloxi growled. Sinking into the chair, she blinked when Greta rolled close until they were nose to nose. “You’re not thinking straight. If Chantel knows, she certainly hasn’t said anything to anyone, including Nick. Maybe her intentions are good. Maybe she doesn’t want to be involved—this has two potentially extreme outcomes. One, Nick hates Cat or Aurélie, or whatever she calls herself, and never sees her again. Or two, he’s totally renewed by reconnecting with his mother. Chantel’s in a bad spot. She works for him. Either way, he’s going to need your support, not Chantel’s. I don’t blame her for remaining silent. She probably wants to remove herself from this mess. It has all the earmarks of disaster.”
“Except that she hasn’t refused to be involved. She’s the contact. The go-between.”
“Who else could Catherine trust? If she gave you the name of a realtor or some other stranger, you probably wouldn’t believe the authenticity of the note. She used Chantel for a reason.”
Biloxi’s shoulders slumped. “This whole thing could be a trap.”
“I believe you can trust Chantel enough to ask her about this,” Greta said. “And maybe the reason Nick wasn’t able to find his mother before now was because Cat lived abroad. The letter suggests she thinks y’all are already married. She’s not trying to ruin your wedding.”
“Okay.” Biloxi sighed deeply. “Maybe I’m overreacting. He said no one could find even a trace through her Social Security number until recently, so maybe that’s the truth.”
“You won’t know unless you investigate.” Greta rose. “Eat your lunch. It’ll probably help your headache. It will definitely give you the strength to go groveling,” she chuckled. “I can’t wait to see what you’re going to wear to meet his mother.”
Turning toward the desk, Biloxi held her head in her hands and rested her elbows on the desktop. “I don’t know… My headache is back full force. I can’t believe I’m going crawling on my hands and knees to ask for Chantel’s help.”