Golden Hour (Crescent City)

by Campbell Reinhardt

  I give his arm a quick squeeze and feel a rush of endorphins from the good energy between us. I use it to bolster my courage.

  “Caleb!” I call just as he’s opening his driver’s side door.

  “Nurse Dupuis,” he jokes as I walk closer. He leans one broad shoulder against the truck, then stands, his body rigid, his smile pressing into a hard line. “Is everything okay? Are you alright? Your grandmother?”

  The panicked look in his eyes, the way his jaw sets as he prepares to hear bad news, makes something soft and small flutter to life in my heart. It’s been a long time since someone worried about me in that unhinged way. Not the soft, earnest eyes of my friends and family who compare the present me to the me before Mike. Caleb Warren doesn’t have the option to use that situation for reference. When he worries about me, it’s simple.

  And, quietly, somewhere deep down, I realize how much I like that. Have missed that kind of attention from a man. I startle at that thought, and rush on to speak to him before I get overwhelmed by the twisting emotions I can never quite figure out lately.

  “Everyone is fine, thank you. That’s actually why I came by to see you.”

  “You were looking for me?” He crosses his arms over his sturdy chest, and the buttons on his shirt strain against those taut muscles.

  “Yes,” I say. I push my bangs out of my face and try not to appear as frazzled as I feel. “I just wanted to thank you. For the way you were with Gran. She can be so loopy some days, and you were so kind to her. A lot of people lose patience with her quickly. We’ve had medics out to the house before and no one has ever been so good to her, Caleb. So, thank you.”

  He tips his chin down and those crisp blue eyes settle on me like he’s enjoying the view. My face and neck feel like they’re on fire. “Just doing my job, Elise. I’m glad she’s doing well.”

  “Right.” I nod and keep pressing the words out no matter how much they hurt. “There’s one more thing. My grandma, she mentioned someone else a few times, and I know that must have been weird for you. I just wanted to explain—”

  “Do you want to talk about this somewhere other than a crappy parking lot?” he interrupts, his voice low. So no one overhears? So he doesn’t spook me from agreeing? “Do you want to grab lunch? St. Charles’ Tavern makes a killer special every day.”

  “Um…” I don’t know if I’m ready to be seen out in public with another man yet. Late at night, in a dimly lit bar is one thing, but enjoying a meal and company in the middle of the day? Is that allowed this early? Are there standards for mourning that I need to follow?

  I don’t really know what the rules of mourning are. I never expected to be a young...what am I? Not a widow, I guess. Mike and I didn’t walk down the aisle before he died, and I regret that for so many reasons. One of them being that I don’t know what to define myself as. No one else does either. There’s no name for it, and maybe that makes better sense than I think. There’s sure as hell no name for the mix of emotions I feel every time I think about him and us and all that’s never going to be.

  “It’s fine, we can talk here.” His voice is still low and protective, and he moves his body closer, hands out, like he wants to soothe me. But he doesn’t. Which is good.

  Because if he doesn’t touch me I may be able to collect my thoughts like a rational person. If he touches me…

  I really can’t think about that right now.

  “No, it’s not that I don’t want to, I just...Shit, I don’t know how to say this…I feel so stupid, but it’s being in public. I’m just nervous about...co-workers. I don’t want to run into anyone from work. You know how bad the gossip can be. Not that there’s anything to gossip about! Just, I prefer to keep my personal life private.”

  And I do want to keep my time with Caleb private, but it’s not the workers of Crescent City Memorial that I’m worried about.

  I don’t want Charlie to find out. I don’t want Mike’s family to find out.

  Not that there’s anything wrong with any of this. It’s just...I don’t know what it is.

  Caleb looks around like he’s checking to see if we’re being staked, and I feel like an idiot. I’m fumbling this whole thing. It was supposed to be a simple thank you for a kind gesture; now it’s morphing into something secretive and tawdry right in front of my eyes.

  “Right. I get it. How about my place?” He cocks an eyebrow and holds both hands in front of him, like he’s asking me to hear his case. “I know that might sound shady, but I live on the other side of the lake. You aren’t going to run into any friends over there. I can throw something on the grill? Or whip something up quick and we can eat out on the porch, just kick back for a while. It’s pretty damn nice out with the humidity down like this, and when I leave here, I’m off for two days. What do ya say?”

  His place.

  What do I say?

  That this may be turning into something I didn’t mean for it to be.

  That I’m biting off a good bit more than I can chew.

  That, bad as this idea may be, I’m having a hard time saying ‘no’ to Caleb Warren’s invitation.

  What I say out loud is, “That sounds perfect. Can I follow you in my car?”

  Caleb’s house is a tiny place on pillars, banked on the edge of swampy water that’s shadowed with huge, old cypress trees. The home’s yellow wood exterior must have the original paint on it, based on the chipping. The door is a mossy shade of green with a rod iron fleur de lis, similar to the one that was on my grandparents.’ The porch is white and has mismatched outdoor furniture on it. What the place lacks in space it more than makes up for in charm. In a different time, I could picture an intimate jazz session on this wide, bowed porch.

  “I’ve never been back here.” I step out of the car and smell the sweet scent of the wide pink swamp roses that are blooming along his gravel drive. Mallow roses, Gran would have corrected me. They tangle and twine high around an old water trough, adding a burst of color to the patchy lawn.

  Caleb sticks his hands in his pockets and gives his home a critical once over. “It’s not uptown, but—”

  “It’s lovely,” I say, plucking a mallow rose and holding the soft petals up to my nose as I look over the water at the blue sky dotted with a few wispy clouds. “Quiet. Peaceful.”

  “For the most part. The frogs and birds go pretty nuts after dark, but I like it.” He nods to the poles and buckets lined up neatly on the steps. “Plus, you can fish right here from the porch, so that’s always a plus.”

  “I love some fresh sunfish,” I say, thinking back to our days fishing with Grandpa, the sun burning out necks red and the mosquitoes biting Charlie and me until we were covered with bumps we scratched raw.

  Mama would say, “Why in the world do you want to be burned and bit for hours on end? We can buy wonderful fish fresh from the docks!”

  She never understood that it was all about sitting with Grandpa while he told us stories about whippings he took as a boy and tricks he and his friends pulled on their teachers. There wasn’t a blistering sunburn or nasty bite that could keep us away from Grandpa’s booming laugh skipping over the water like a flat stone.

  “Sunfish are some good eating,” Caleb agrees, squinting into the sun as he looks at me. “Sorry to say, all I’ve been catching lately are pickerel and bowfins.”

  “Gran has a good recipe for fish cakes made with pickerel.” I step to the side so my head blocks the sun from his eyes. He blinks and a slow, sweet smile tugs at his lips.

  “I’ll have to have her over and teach me how to make ‘em. I’d save myself a pile of grocery money.” He starts up the porch.

  I take one last look at the quiet swamp. “She’d love that,” I say.

  I don’t actually know if Gran would be able to cook anything anymore. It’s been months since she even tried, and that time was a disaster. Muffins thick and salty with too much baking soda, and all our hearts broken because it was what helped us realize her mind really was lost. She ate m
uffin after muffin like she didn’t even notice while we all watched, silent.

  I follow Caleb into the house and take in the interior. There’s dated wallpaper in the kitchen, which is neat and clean other than a recycling bin overflowing with beer cans and liquor bottles. The living room is painted a neutral color and has simple, comfortable furniture. A small dining room table on one side has nothing but a pair glass salt and pepper shakers on the surface.

  It’s...nice. It just doesn’t feel very lived in. Maybe that’s just a guy thing. Charlie’s place would have even less in it than it does if he didn’t inherit accessories and furniture from Grandpa and Gran.

  Though Mike loved home improvement projects. He actually got our landlord to shave money off the rent in our place because of all the tweaks he made. I watched him lay flooring, put up molding, install new faucets and fixtures. Whenever I whined that it was a waste of money and energy to do this all in a rental, he’d grab me around the waist and say, “Hey, hey, this isn’t a waste, doll. This is practice for when we get our fixer-upper. When we’re in our own place, I’ll be able to make it exactly how you want it.”

  My throat closes up, and I blink fast to keep the tears back. Dammit! Why the hell couldn’t someone as good as Mike have had the chance to stick around and put up wainscoting in his own house? It’s little shit like that that makes Mike’s death devastate me over and over again. I know it’s obvious, but sometimes it’s hard to fully comprehend one simple fact: life can be so fucking unfair.

  “So, lunch? You up for chicken?” Caleb says, opening the refrigerator, and shocking me back to the present.

  “That’s great,” I say, sitting down on one of the stools at the counter that looks into the kitchen. My knees feel weak, and my head spins.

  “Beer?” he asks, though he’s already handing one to me across the counter. I pop the top of the can of Abita and take a quick sip.

  “Did you grow up here?” I ask to move my thoughts onto something neutral. “I mean, is this your family home?”

  Caleb’s laugh rings out over the crackling sound of lard frying in the pan on the stove. I watch his shoulders rise and fall, follow his muscled arm when he reaches for a fork. “Nah, we had a bigger place a little ways down the river, but now my parents live over in the burbs of Metairie.”

  “Oh, that’s nice that they’re close,” I say. But not too close. Lucky, I think.

  I’m happy to be saving my parents money on the apartment they built for Gran now that she won’t be moving in. But I took for granted how perfect it was to be close enough to visit but far enough to avoid their prying eyes and endless interfering.

  “Yeah, I don’t see them much,” he says, his voice clipped. He grabs his beer and takes a pull that lasts too long for it have been about thirst alone. And it’s like I can see the stone wall go up between us. He isn’t going to offer anything further, and I have no interest in pressing. Some things are better left locked away—I know that only too well. “Anyway, what was it that you were trying to tell me in the parking lot?”

  I ignore the fact that he just changed the subject, taking it off of something he wanted to avoid so he could bring up something I’d rather avoid. But I don’t want to have this strangeness about Mike. I want Caleb to know, no questions, no surprises if he comes up later. “My Gran, she says things sometimes that don’t make sense.”

  “The dementia, I know. It’s no problem.” Caleb looks over his shoulder as he answers, then turns back to the popping oil and flicks some water droplets on the surface. I watch him turn the heat down and reach for the chicken.

  I hate saying Mike’s name to someone new, knowing I’ll have to tell the parts that are still so raw, they sometimes seem like maybe I just dreamed them up.

  “But, about Mike...I know you heard her calling you ‘Mike’—”

  He puts a few floured pieces of chicken into the pan and turns to me, leaned against the counter, those blue eyes watching me with a quiet intensity. “To be fair, I’ve been referred to by a lot of names on calls. Mike was definitely a nice change from some of the other colorful phrases—”

  I can’t joke about this. I can’t let him think it’s just a funny segue. So I rush to tell him. “Right, well, thank you for being so gracious about it. I know it’s awkward when I’m dealing with confused patients and I’m trying to help and—”

  When he interrupts this time, there’s no joking behind his words. He’s all serious, and he’s telling me that he respects my need to keep my secret. I know it’s because he has secrets of his own, locked down and covered up...like that can make them disappear.

  “You don’t have to tell me any of this. I was happy to help your grandmother, Elise.” His voice snags on my name before he ends the sentence, like he wants to say more, but doesn’t.

  He and I wrestle the same demons. And I figure we both have our own ways to keep those demons calm before they destroy us.

  He’s right. I don’t have to tell him. Just because it’s the truth doesn’t mean I have to feel obligated to go screaming it for everyone to hear.

  But, for some reason, I want to.

  Maybe it’s just because I saw the confusion on his face when Gran first called him Mike, and then when she said he had died, he looked so damn uncomfortable. Maybe I just want him to know that it’s a compliment that Gran thought of Mike when she encountered Caleb’s gentlemanly sweetness. Maybe I feel like, somehow, Caleb will understand everything that no one else seems to get.

  “Mike is...gone,” I begin, my voice cracking. Caleb pushes off the counter and comes closer to me, his eyes begging me to stop and go on all at once. “I...think you’re burning something,” I say, pointing at the stove.

  Caleb stalks back, turns the pieces, lowers the heat, and looks at me, his eyes sharp and hard. He says nothing, so I fill the silence.

  “Mike was my fiancé, but he’s... gone now. He—” I stop, close my eyes, and say it. Just say it, dammit. “Mike died. And you are the first person in months who hasn’t looked at me with stupid earnest eyes and patted me on the head and told me I’m going to feel better soon, and I love that.” I gasp the last few words out, my voice high and breathy with a wild excitement that makes me feel free. Caleb watches me silently, arms crossed, face blank. I rush to fill the quiet with more words. “And now that you know about...him...I’m afraid that’s going to change. And I don’t want it to. I like this,” I say, motioning around the kitchen with the hand not clutching my beer can to him, standing over the stove, looking so comfortable and good. “I like the feel of all of this much better than the sadness. So please…” I bite my lip. “Please, Caleb, don’t let things get weird.”

  He stares at me for a long minute before clearing his throat.

  One side of his mouth tugs up into a grin and he wags his head back and forth. “You know that you just made things weird, right?” he chuckles.

  I feel my face ignite with the heat of embarrassment until he winks, and I realize that the joke was for my benefit. “Right. Um, I guess I did.”

  “It’s okay, Elise.” He takes the chicken out of the pan, putting it on a china plate. He carries it over to the counter, his voice a low rumble that shakes me to the core. “I don’t know you all that well, but I like you. I like spending time with you. So zero weirdness. I promise.”

  He jerks his head and we head to the patio out back. He sets a plate in front of me on the tiny mosaic table top. “Thank you,” I say softly. “For everything.”

  “Pleasure’s all mine.” His words rasp in my ears, make the hair on the back of my neck stand up. He walks into the house and comes back out with a cold bean salad in a bowl still chilled from the fridge, plus two fresh beers.

  “You always know you wanted to be a nurse?” he asks as we scoop food onto our plates. His chicken is delicious, crispy skinned with juicy meat that melts on my tongue.

  I blot my mouth with my napkin before answering. “Absolutely. My family has been in medicine for as far back as
I know. I mean, way back. We were in the healing business long before modern medicine—I come from conjure women. My being a nurse was always sort of a given.”

  “How about your brother?” I wonder if it’s a coincidence that Caleb takes a long drink of beer immediately after asking about my brother.

  “Charlie?” I test, and watch him take another sip.

  Shit. Not a good sign.

  “Yeah. Officer Dupuis,” he says with none of the good-natured joking he used when he called me Nurse Dupuis. “Was he destined to be a cop the way you were destined to be a nurse?”

  I take a bite of the crisp bean salad that has a sour pickled kick. Delicious. “My father’s side is law enforcement going back to the time when New Orleans was just a colony. I guess our paths were chosen for us in a way. It was always understood that I’d be a nurse or doctor, and Charlie would be a police officer or join the military.”

  “Ouch,” Caleb says, wincing.

  “No, it’s fine.” I smile at him, but Caleb just raises an eyebrow. “I know it sounds old-fashioned, but we love the work we do. I really can’t imagine doing anything else. I bet you sort of always knew you wanted to work in the medical field too, right? I mean, working EMS is only for a select breed of people.”

  “It wasn’t exactly my choice.” He puts his fork down and pushes his hands through his dark hair.

  “If not yours, whose was it? Your parents’?” I ask.

  “I don’t really want to talk about it.” His voice snaps out, and I put my fork down. “Sorry. It’s just...not something I like talking about,” he says evenly.

  “Okay.” I’ve had a ton of practice in avoiding conversations about Mike lately. But I’ve never been a big talker. Mike was always the loud, boisterous, social one, and I kind of followed his lead. I’m used to the prickliness Caleb responds with, because that’s usually my reaction, too.

  The problem is, with both of us being ornery and quiet, what the hell will we talk about?

  I search my brain for a safe topic. “This chicken is amazing.” Good. Safe. How can you go wrong with chicken? “You’ll have to give me the recipe sometime.”