“I grew up here, Mrs. Lobelia. My mother always made a King Cake for us on the Epiphany. There were parties every night until Mardi Gras ended. Now, tell me what else you would like for your party. How many guests?” Josie asked, her pencil posed.
“A dozen or so. The usual: jambalaya, gumbo, etouffée, praline pie. Go easy on the Andouille since our stomachs aren’t what they used to be. I hope you have a good roux recipe. I prefer a dark roux. I want it all to be authentic. I’ll leave the appetizers up to you.”
Josie scribbled furiously. “I have some excellent recipes. Before I make a decision, I’ll consult with you. You mentioned another engagement.”
The diamonds on the tiny hands winked under the soft lighting. Josie leaned back in her swivel chair to better observe the little woman’s agitation at the simple statement.
“Yes. I’m not sure . . . What I mean is . . . I might possibly be making a mistake . . . It seems like the right thing to do and yet . . . Yes, I want to engage your services for a Mother’s Day party. A gala of sorts if seventy- and eighty-year-old people can experience such a thing without falling asleep. You see, I want to do this for . . . for my family. By that I mean relatives who no longer have children or whose children have . . . forgotten about them. Several cousins won’t make it past the new year, so I thought . . . It’s such a special day. Perhaps I’m wrong to do this. What is your opinion, chère?”
“I think it’s a wonderful thing to be remembered on Mother’s Day. My sister and I always tried to do something special for Mom. We’d pick flowers, serve her toast in bed. We weren’t allowed to make anything else when we were younger. We’d sing her a song we learned in school. She’d clap her hands and hug us. They were the best hugs,” Josie said, with a catch in her voice. “Do you have children of your own, Mrs. Lobelia?”
“I did,” Marie said flatly. “My oldest daughter died in childbirth. Her husband moved away and took the child with him. She’d be about your age now. I’ve never seen or heard from them since that day. My second daughter died at the age of sixteen from cystic fibrosis. My son . . . my son operates our family business out of our corporate headquarters in New York. I never see him. He calls on occasion. I can’t change things. I’m not sure I would even if I could. Everything in life is preordained. Do you believe that, chère?”
How sad she is. What could be worse than having no family? “Yes, I do agree. Now, tell me what it is you would like for your Mother’s Day party.”
“Since it’s going to be the same group of ladies, I think we’ll need a different menu. I’ll take care of the gifts and the flowers. Every mother should get flowers on Mother’s Day. How hard is it to send a card?”
Josie pretended not to see the tears gathering in the faded caramel-colored eyes. She looked down at the paper in front of her. “I think my sister and I can make this a very special day for you and your friends. Let me talk to Kitty, and I’ll run the details by you before we make any definite decisions. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“I don’t know if you know this or not, but I still own and operate a small company that my first husband and I started. We package cornmeal and print a new recipe each quarter on our bags. I’ve run out of recipes. I’d like something new and unique. I’m afraid the company is faltering a bit. I need something to perk it up. I don’t want my son to come back and snatch it away from me because he thinks I’m seventy-four years old and not capable of operating the company. Right now we’re holding our own. I’ve found over the years that a new recipe drives up sales. Do you think you could come up with something? Name your price.”
What kind of son did this sweet woman have? A shark. “This is just off the top of my head, Mrs. Lobelia, but have you given any thought to, say, a bake-off or cook-off, something like that. More important, do you have a Web page? If not, I know someone who can design one for you. Perhaps a dish that could be written up and prepared at someplace like the Commander’s Palace or possibly Emeril Lagasse’s restaurant if you go with the cook-off idea?”
“Now you’re cookin’, chère. What a fabulous idea! I don’t want to be a failure at my age. Now, why didn’t I think of that? I’ll need the recipe by April first. I can’t wait to tell the girls. The Web page sounds wonderful. I’ll do it. Will that be a problem?”
Josie smiled. “I don’t think so. Are you Cajun, Mrs. Lobelia? Lobelia isn’t a Cajun-sounding name.”
“Lobelia is Choctaw. However, I am Cajun. I’ve been married four times. Somehow I managed to outlive all four husbands. I come from sturdy stock as they say. Oh my goodness, we didn’t discuss payment. Let me just write you a check as a deposit and then you can send me a bill for the rest. Will that be satisfactory?”
“This is our price list. You might want to look at it when you have time. Twenty percent is customary. We can work out the payment for the recipe later on. It’s been nice doing business with you,” Josie said, accepting the scribbled check. Her eyes widened. “This is too much, Mrs. Lobelia.”
“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it. Just post it to my account. Do you mind if I ask you a question?”
“Not at all.”
“Was your mother perfect? Was she a perfect mother? You know, one of those June Cleaver types.”
Josie laughed. “I don’t think there’s any such thing as a perfect mother. But, to answer your question, no, she wasn’t perfect. She had flaws. She made mistakes. She knew how to apologize, and she gave the best hugs. That made up for everything because my sister and I knew she loved us.”
“I guess that’s where it all went wrong,” Marie Lobelia murmured. “My son wanted a perfect mother. Call me, chère. My phone number is on the check. I can see my way out. You need a screen door, chère.”
Josie laughed again. “It’s being repaired. It’s one of those old-fashioned wooden ones that squeak.”
“The best kind. I used to love hearing it slam when the children were little. Someone was always poking a hole in it. One day it would be new and the next day it would have a strip of adhesive tape over the hole and the little wires would poke through. I’m surprised I remember that. I do ramble. I’m sorry. It’s what happens when you get old. Senior moments.” She giggled and then took her leave.
“Whoever your son is, Mrs. Lobelia, he’s a shit!” Josie muttered when she was alone. “Perfect mother my foot!”
Josie leaned back in her swivel chair and closed her eyes. They snapped open so she could stare down at the check in the amount of $20,000. A good day’s work by any standard. She should go to the bank. Or she could go up to the house and look at the article in Gourmet Party magazine. On the other hand, she could do both. She could go to the bank and read the article.
Josie tidied her desk, turned off her computer and the lights, her head filled with memories of when she and Kitty held tea parties and dance classes in these very rooms. How often she’d run here with Kitty when a punishment was something she didn’t think she could bear. Once she and Kitty had made curtains for the diamond-shaped windows. Just squares of brightly colored cloth held together with safety pins. They’d been so proud of those curtains. Now, crisp, crisscross organdy curtains hung on the shiny windows. There were no teddy bears and dolls with stretched-out, matted hair on the window seats. The soft, cuddly pillows perfect for holding against one’s chest were gone, too, replaced with custom-made flowered cushions.
A red wagon, its wheels rusted, had sat next to a blue tri-cycle in the corner of the room. Stacks of building blocks, every color of the rainbow, nestled in discarded orange-mesh bags. She wondered what happened to the tin tea set with the violets painted in the center. Maybe her mother threw it out when the pieces started to rust around the edges.
Memories. Mrs. Lobelia must have memories like hers. Sad memories. Sad memories she had to live with.
Josie closed and locked the Dutch door, which matched the diamond-shaped panes in the front windows. She missed the screen door. She really had to sweep the porch. Just the tho
ught of cleaning all the tiny white specks made her shudder. Maybe the leaf blower would be the answer. It would be something to do later after she went to the bank and after she read the article in the magazine.
“What’s for dinner, Josie?” Kitty asked.
“The rest of the po’boys and some canned soup. We’re twenty thousand dollars richer today, sister dear. That makes me feel good. Real good. It surprised me that Mrs. Lobelia knew about the column I write for the Gazette during Lent. You know, the one where you come up with a recipe every week and I pass it off as mine. The column gave her the idea for the recipe on her cornmeal bag. I’m impressed.” Then she told her sister her ideas for Mrs. Lobelia’s company.
“The Commander’s Palace and Emeril Lagasse! For a cook-off! How do you expect to pull that off?” Kitty queried as she sipped at her hot rum tea.
“I just threw that out as a suggestion. It sounded good at the time, and she was expecting me to say something. It isn’t carved in stone. We’ve always been good at improvising. If it’s not that, then it will be something else. Hey, maybe a picnic at Evangeline Oak, the legendary meeting place of Emmeline and Louis. You remember Longfellow’s poem Evangeline, don’t you? It’s the true story of Emmeline Labiche and Louis Arceneaux, two lovers who were separated for years before finally reuniting. Everyone loves that story and going to that old oak. Like I said, it’s a thought. By the way, how are you feeling?”
“A little tired, but I think that’s from blowing my nose every ten minutes. I’m over the worst of it. I’ll be back in the kitchen tomorrow. You read the article, and I’ll heat the soup and warm the sandwiches. Hey, look at Rosie,” Kitty hissed.
Josie looked under the table. Rosie was sound asleep, her little head cradled between the stuffed animal’s paws. Josie smiled.
“Nice article. Not as good as ours. Guess that’s why he got the back and we got the centerfold. The camera likes him. Good bone structure. He doesn’t look like he knows how to relax. Kind of stiff-looking. The arrogance is there, though. If he’s Cajun, what happened to his accent? It says here he’s Cajun. He must have a lot of money. He has a house right here in the Garden District, a chalet in Switzerland, and a house in the Hamptons. That all makes for big bucks. They stop short of saying he’s a playboy. Old money. It doesn’t say what it is exactly that he does. We do have a name now, though. Paul Brouillette. We could look him up in the phone book. If we were interested, that is. Since we aren’t interested, we won’t look it up,” Josie said.
“I already did that. I wrote the number on the pad by the phone. Just in case we wanted to call him, which we don’t, so we probably should throw away the number,” Kitty said breathlessly.
“You already called the number, didn’t you?” Josie said suspiciously.
Kitty winked at her sister. “I just wanted to see if he was home. He wasn’t. His answering machine came on. I hung up. There’s nothing wrong with that. I wanted to be sure he was bona fide in case we have to, you know, send him a bill for the screen door like you said. It wouldn’t hurt you to show a little interest. I’ll bet you could get him just by snapping your fingers. If you’re interested, that is,” Kitty said slyly as she ladled soup into the two strawberry bowls.
“I can’t believe you’re trying to match me up with some . . . Cajun playboy with a ponytail. Let’s get real here, and you know what else? I am going to send him a bill for the repairs regardless of the cost. The plants were over a hundred dollars. The screen door is going to be at least sixty. I had to buy screws for the windows boxes. It damn well adds up.”
“Why don’t you take the bill over there personally? Gee whiz, you could walk from here. Give Rosie a chance to wreck his place.”
“I’m not giving back that stuffed dog. That’s a given. Look how happy she is. We don’t ever mention that, okay, Kitty?”
“Fine by me. You make it sound like we’re going to be seeing him again. How’s that going to happen?” Her voice turned sly again as she raised her eyes to the slowly rotating paddle fan over the kitchen table. “I think it’s gonna rain.”
“Don’t change the subject. The weatherman didn’t say anything about rain. That gray cloud over the backyard is going to go away.”
“When we were little we used to pray for rain so we could slop in the puddles and make mud pies,” Kitty said wistfully. “I don’t care if I am all grown-up. I want to do that again. I wonder what it would be like to run naked through the rain sucking on a mango.”
Josie choked on the food in her mouth. “Where . . . what . . . ?”
“I asked Harry if he ever did that and he said no but he had crawled buck-ass naked through tall weeds sucking on a long neck bottle of Budweiser. I thought it was kind of funny. We’re going to do it the next time it rains. Providing I’m recovered from my cold.”
“Thanks for sharing that with me,” Josie said hoarsely. Kitty would do it, too. Kitty was the adventuresome one. The most daring thing Josie had ever done with a guy was to go skinny-dipping. Because she was two minutes older, she felt as though she had to set an example for her more precocious twin. Some example.
“I’ll clean up. Start thinking about a new recipe for Mrs. Lobelia. I’m going to take Rosie for a walk.”
“I drew a kind of crude map of where Mr. Rich lives. It’s on the sheet under his phone number. Just go to the end of this street, make a right and two lefts, and voilà, you’re there.”
Josie threw the dishtowel at her sister’s back. She tucked the directions in the back of her mind. Not that she had any intention of following them. Besides, how could she possibly know the house number? She looked around to see if Kitty was within eye range. Satisfied, she peeked under the first sheet of paper on the notepad. There it was: 2899. How hard could that be to remember? She tucked it away in her mind along with the directions.
Ninety minutes later, Josie tripped down the staircase, Rosie’s leash in her hand.
Kitty whistled her appreciation from her position on the couch. “Nice dog-walking outfit! Isn’t that the same getup you spent days searching for when you had a date with that diplomat not too long ago? Didn’t you say you were sick for days over how much it cost? Is that perfume I smell? By God, it is perfume!” Kitty said sniffing appreciatively. “It is the same perfume you bought for that tight-assed diplomat who arm wrestled you on the front porch. You’re lookin’ good, girl. He’d be a fool to turn you down.”
“I simply changed my clothes because I dribbled some of the tomato soup on my blouse. I’m not going anywhere near his house. Stop matchmaking. The diplomat was a jerk. I might as well get some use out of this outfit. As for the perfume, I like it. What’s wrong with wearing perfume ?”
“Are you going to gussy up Rosie, too?”
“I put a clean bow in her hair. I do that every day. Get that gleam out of your eye, Kitty. You’re up to something, aren’t you? You wouldn’t dare! Tell me you wouldn’t . . .”
“Me pretend to be you and go visit him! Nah! That’s kid stuff. We’re all grown-up now. Besides, I can’t get pissed off like you do. I’m too easygoing. He’d see right through the charade.”
Josie jiggled the leash and waited for Rosie to join her. When Rosie finally wiggled her way through the dining room to the living room she had the stuffed dog with her.
“Look at her.” Kitty laughed. “She’s exhausted from dragging that toy. Looks like you’re going to have to pull her in the wagon. From the looks of her she won’t last a block, and you have about four to go from the front door.”
“You’re out of your mind! There’s no way I’m going to pull a dog in a wagon down the street. People are sitting on their porches. They’ll laugh me right out of town.”
Josie flopped down on the couch next to her sister. “I miss that old couch with the spring popping through at the end. We should have kept it. Since my plans have been thwarted, I think I’ll have a little glass of wine or maybe a tall beer. How about you, Kitty?”
“Beer sounds good.
Turn the fans on when you get back. It’s getting hot already. I hate humidity. My hair is nothing but a ball of frizz. I’m going to get some of that stuff that takes the curl out of your hair.”
“Don’t bother. It doesn’t work,” Josie said, handing her a beer. “Kitty, was Mom anywhere near being a perfect mother?”
“Not to my way of thinking. Why do you ask?”
Josie told her about Mrs. Lobelia and her son. “I don’t even know anyone who has a perfect mother. More to the point, what is a perfect mother?”
Kitty shrugged as she gulped at the frosty beer. “I guess it’s someone who does everything right, anticipates your every need, is always there, never complains, and always smiles no matter what. Jeez, Mom was nothing like that. Remember how she used to whip our asses with the wooden spoon when we did something wrong? To me, that’s a perfect mother. She wanted us to know right from wrong. We never made the same mistake twice, so I guess it worked. How about another beer since you aren’t going for your walk?”
“Sure, why not?” Josie said glumly. She hated taking these trips down Memory Lane.
The twins were finishing their second bottle of beer when the phone rang. “Right on schedule,” Josie muttered. “The guy is a creature of habit. Does he ever call at two minutes past the hour? Does he have some kind of timer he goes by? Where’s the excitement? How can you get an adrenaline rush when you know he’s going to call precisely at eight o’clock? If you want my opinion, your intended is boring as hell. I’m going for that walk now while you talk about nothing for two hours.”
“The wagon’s by the front door. Rosie is waiting for you,” Kitty gurgled. “Don’t worry. No one will see you since it’s getting dark.”
Listen To Your Heart Page 3