Both of those leave her asking for my father, and when she starts asking for Grant, it’s officially a bad day.
“I told her about your arm, but she might still be surprised to see it on Monday.”
He winces. “I may not be able to drive on Monday.”
I shrug. “You don’t have to go. Besides, you might be hurting.”
Nonc nails me with a glare over his reading glasses. “I want to go. She expects me.”
“Okay,” I say, chuckling at his intensity. “I’ll take you.”
He frowns. “You’re over there enough already. A twenty-seven-year-old man shouldn’t spend so much time in an old folks’ home.” He plucks a grape and pops it into his mouth. “Maybe I’ll ask Lorraine to take me.”
I nearly choke on my last bite of BLT. “You sure you want to do that?”
Nonc looks down at the crumbs on his plate and shrugs. “She was asking after your mother.”
I frown. “When?”
He still doesn’t look up at me. “When I called her this morning to tell her about the surgery.”
I try, but I don’t do a great job of hiding my surprise. “You called her?”
When he meets my gaze, his look is hawkish. “I’m sixty-six. I have high cholesterol. You think there’s no risk in going under for surgery at my age?”
His question hits me in the gut. “I-I hadn’t thought about it.”
He grunts. “That’s the privilege of youth. Before you have surgery at sixty-six, if you don’t settle your affairs, you at least say things that need to be said.”
“And you had things to say to Lorraine?”
His white brows leap with fervor. “I’ll always have things to say to Lorraine,” he practically shouts.
I smile wide. “I should’ve known that,” I mutter.
Nonc grunts again. “Well, she had things to say too, and one of them was that she’d like to visit Gina.”
I nod, still smiling. “I’m sure Mom would like that too.” I stare at him until he scowls.
“What?” he barks.
“You gonna marry her a third time?”
“No.” The word is fast. Too fast. He waves his uninjured hand as though I’m an annoying fly. “What are you doing here so early? Don’t you have anything better to do?”
I laugh, and I can tell he doesn’t like it one bit. I stand up and collect our plates. “I have grading to do. I was gonna borrow your back porch swing to do it.
He bats a hand toward the back door. “Well, get to it then. The last thing I need is you grinnin’ at me like some simpleton.”
I clean up the kitchen and give my uncle some peace. His porch swing is the one thing of his I envy. One day, I need to add on to the tiny porch of my tiny house so I can fit one of my own. His swing is wrought iron and as heavy-duty as a chariot. When I sit back and set it swinging, the creaking of the chains makes a welcome music to accompany my grading. I plough through one set of exams and get up only to fill a glass with iced tea before settling in to grade the next.
The afternoon slips by. The four o’clock ballroom class is a piece of cake, and it energizes me for the last push of grading back on Nonc’s porch swing. And before I realize the time, Iris Adams’s black Range Rover is crunching through gravel in the back drive. I look up from the stack of exams in my lap, but I can make out nothing behind the tinted windows.
Does she really need tinted windows? Sure, people recognized her at the hospital last night, but they didn’t mob her.
And then I remember the junkie. Okay, he did kind of mob her.
Still, tinted windows spell pretentious.
The driver’s side door opens, and her PA Ramon steps out. The guy goes to the back seat door, and he opens it like a chauffeur. Like a frickin’ chauffeur. I watch Iris Adams place her hand in his and slip out of the vehicle.
Pretentious? Make that insufferable.
Two months. I can get through two months, I tell myself, straightening my papers and getting to my feet.
Instead of heading my way, Iris turns and leans back into the SUV. She comes out with a giant basket and hooks it on her arm. Even from here, I hear Ramon offer to take it. She shakes her head and sets off across the drive.
But the basket’s half as big as she is, and as she hoists it up the steps, I drop my exams and move in to help.
“Here, let me get that.”
“No, thank you,” she says, tugging back when my hand meets the wicker handle. “I’ve got it.”
I step back, but not before getting a sense of the basket’s weight, which has got to be forty pounds. The thing is bursting with parcels wrapped in blue gingham and twine.
Ramon gets the door, and Iris steps inside. But she’s panting, and her arms strain as she hefts the basket up onto Nonc’s kitchen table. I follow bemused.
Clearly winded, she turns to me, takes a deep breath and lets it out. “Hi, Beau,” she pants. “Is your uncle here?” She dabs her wrist against invisible sweat on her forehead and something about the gesture tempts my smile, but I keep it in check.
“I think he’s upstairs.”
“Oh.” Her chest rises and falls again. She gestures to the mammoth basket. “I brought him a few things.”
This time my smile breaks free. “I see that.” I guess she’s the kind of person who needs recognition for everything she does. But then again, she’s got to be used to people watching her all the time. When she’s around, it’s hard to look anywhere else. As a matter of fact, Ramon and Iris’s friend Sally followed us inside, but I barely register their presence.
Iris’s slender brows knit together. “How’s he doing? Is he okay?” If I didn’t know she was an actress, I’d say that was real worry in her eyes.
“He’s okay.” I give her a half-shrug. “He’s having surgery Friday, and then hopefully the worst will be behind him.”
Her eyes do this quick-flutter thing before they widen. “Surgery?” Surprise and distress hang in her voice, and I pause. Maybe this isn’t acting. I frown.
“Yeah, it wasn’t a clean break, but the orthopedist says that with PT following the surgery he should be alright.”
“Oh man,” she moans, looking sick.
“Stop scaring her,” Nonc barks, filling the doorway. “I’m gonna be fine.”
Iris whirls around to face him. “Oh, Mr. Hebert. Look at that cast. Oh crap, I’m so sorry. God, I’m so sorry.” Her words run into each other, and she shakes her hands like she’s trying to air-dry them. Then she gestures toward the basket. “I couldn’t sleep last night, and I started thinking about all the things you might need or want over the next few days, so I brought over what I could find.”
She starts unloading bundles from the basket and setting them on the table. “I placed an order from a medical supply store and got you a cast cover for the shower, and there’s a cast cooling kit because it’s hot as f—I mean, as hell down here,” she stammers, holding up a slim package. “You can hook this up to the hose attachment on your vacuum cleaner and—”
“Iris—” Ramon vies for her attention.
“—it sucks moisture out of the cast to keep you cool and prevent itching and, you know—” she wrinkles her pert little nose, “odors and stuff—”
“Iris,” Ramon tries again, moving in.
“And there’s some slippers in there because tying shoes right now is going to be tough and—”
“Iris, you wrapped all of these so Mr. Hebert could open them,” Ramon blurts, grabbing the presumed pair of slippers from her. “Let the man open his gifts.”
She shoots her PA an exasperated look. “But I wasn’t thinking. Unwrapping these with one hand? That was dumb. How’s he going to get through the string?”
Nonc’s low laugh fills the room like fog. When I look at him, he’s watching Iris with twinkling eyes, clearly loving every minute of this. “I think I can handle a little string, darlin’,” he says, beaming at her. Then he reaches into his pocket. “Any Cajun man worth his salt keeps
one of these on hand at all times.”
He takes out his pocket knife and waves it at her. But I spy the problem before he does.
“How are you gonna open that?” I ask softly.
Nonc frowns down at his trusty knife. The thing is ancient. The horn and mother-of-pearl inlaid handle is worn from years of use and the soft buffing of denim over the decades spent in his pocket. He might use the blade every day, but he’s not getting it open one-handed.
Without another word, I reach into my pocket and pull out my considerably shinier knife. I release the blade and hand it, hilt first, to my uncle. He takes it with a sour expression and places the tip to one of the twine ties on the package in front of him. It pops immediately—I keep the blade sharp—and Nonc unwraps the parcel to reveal a pair of lightweight scuff slippers. But even without handling them, I know Iris didn’t pick these up at Target. The rich, brown leather looks buttery soft and obviously expensive. The label, stamped in gold on the heel, reads L.B. Evans.
Now, I’ve never seen a pair of designer men’s slippers before—hell, I’ve never even thought of them—but I’m pretty sure these make the cut. And it’s a close call, but I manage not to roll my eyes again. If Iris Adams wants to throw her money around for all the world to see and go and spend ninety dollars on a pair of slippers for my uncle, why should it bother me?
And yet it does bother me. Hell if I know why.
“Mais la,” Nonc utters. “These are too nice.”
Iris steps closer, bending over the fancy slippers, her dark hair falling over one shoulder. “No, they’re perfect. It’s too hot down here for a pair of moccasins or fleece lined slippers. And just feel them,” she says, reaching down and rubbing the leather between her thumb and fingers. “They’re so soft.”
A serene smile shapes her delicate mouth, her lips the color of pomegranate. The smile looks innocent, but the color is sinful, and the confusing combination keeps me staring at her mouth longer than is sensible.
When Nonc doesn’t respond, Iris looks up at him, sees his lingering hesitation, and then her innocent smile turns wicked—which suits the pomegranate shade perfectly but does unexpected things to my pulse.
“Well, you have to keep them because I’m not returning them,” she declares in a teasing voice. “Any L.A. woman worth her salt doesn’t have time for that.”
She’s imitating his boast about the pocket knife, and I should think it’s funny—everyone else thinks it’s funny, even Nonc—but I don’t.
“Fine,” Nonc says, all bluster. “I’ll keep ‘em. I’ll even wear ‘em. But this is all too much.” He waves his good hand over the still full basket. “I don’t need all this.”
Iris cocks a brow at him. “Not even the sugar-glazed, spiral-sliced honey ham?”
My uncle’s mouth forms an O. “You got me one of those?” The wonder in his voice is more childlike than I’ve ever heard. But I know him. He loves ham. He loves bacon. He loves pork roast, pork chops, pork butt, and pork cracklins. He loves pork of every kind, and with a sugar-glazed ham, Iris Adams just won him over for life.
Iris grabs the biggest and heaviest-looking of the bundles from the basket. “I’ll just put this in the fridge.”
“You told her that was your favorite?” I accuse, low-voiced.
Nonc scowls at me. “No,” and then in an even lower voice, “Va brasser dan tes chaudières.” Go stir your own pot. Judging by the smirks on Ramon and Sally’s faces, they don’t need much of a translation. But I can’t see Iris’s expression because she has her head in the refrigerator.
“You told me to get the ham and pepper jack poboy from Olde Tyme Grocery the other night when I’d skipped lunch,” she says, shifting things around in Nonc’s fridge. “You said that was the best.”
“Huh,” Nonc utters, wearing a look of realization. “I did say that. Can’t believe you remembered.”
Iris straightens up, closes the fridge door, and beams sweetly at my uncle. “Of course, I remembered, Mr. Hebert.”
I’m sorry, but nobody is that sweet. She’s got to be playing a part.
Right?
She waves toward the basket. “You can open the rest later. There’s more food, but nothing else that needs to be refrigerated.” Then she turns to me, still wearing the smile meant for Nonc, and the force of her gaze hits me like an electric current. “You ready? We should probably get started.”
I swallow, slow to respond. “Yeah,” I say finally. “Let’s go.”
She nods and slips through the kitchen’s swinging door, headed to the parlor. Sally and Ramon follow her, but before the PA can exit, I stop him.
“Hold up.”
With his hand on the door, he stops. “Yeah?”
I can feel Nonc’s eyes on me, but I don’t care. “Is she for real?”
The PA frowns. “Huh?”
My impatience flairs. “What’s she like when she’s not on?”
His frown turns into a glower. I’d bet money if I looked at my uncle, I’d find the same expression in his face. “Iris? She’s never on.” He spits out the word like it’s rotten fruit and pushes past the swinging door.
Chapter Nine
IRIS
“I don’t like that guy,” Ramon mutters when he joins us in the front studio.
“Me either,” Sally whispers. “And I think he’s the first person I’ve met in Louisiana who’s unfriendly.”
I want to point out that she didn’t meet the gross guy with the bike last night, but I don’t dare bring that up in front of Ramon. I told Sally about it after we got back to the house, but Ramon is still in the dark and it’s going to stay that way.
Still, my best friend likes everyone. I guess it comes with the territory if you’re a preschool teacher. That is, she likes everyone except for Moira, so the fact that she doesn’t like Beau Landry is a pretty serious black mark as far as I’m concerned.
But looking at him is like breathing nitrous oxide. Pain goes away, and I have the urge to giggle. Yeah, he’s that good looking. Even when he’s scowling.
Maybe even especially when he’s scowling.
He’s all broody-bearded-hotness.
It’s only when he opens his mouth and says something mean that I cool off. Hopefully, he’ll do plenty of talking during our lesson because I don’t need to be thinking of his sexy beard and those dark eyes and his too pretty mouth. I’m already going to be a spaz and a half.
God, I hope I don’t break him too.
I still feel so bad about Mr. Hebert. I couldn’t sleep, so I placed as many online orders for his gift basket as I could, and Sally and Ramon picked them up while we filmed this morning. But I wanted to wrap everything myself, which is what I did with my lunch hour. A good thing, because who needs an hour to drink a green smoothie with whey powder?
The only problem was that ham smelled so damn good.
But I wrapped that up first and put it in the trailer’s fridge before Moira could spot it and start lecturing about salted meats and sugar-induced cravings.
Beau Landry comes in while I’m thinking about sweet and salty meats.
Nothing sweet about him, I remind myself.
I brace for what is sure to be a stressful and torturous ninety minutes.
“Are we ready?” he asks, crossing the room.
“Sure,” I lie.
Ramon takes Sally’s waist, holding her left hand in his right. As it has every lesson, the color rushes to her fair cheeks. It’s cute and infuriating at the same time.
“Oh, we’re not there yet,” Beau says, waving them off. “We need to warm up first.”
Sally drops her arms, but Ramon frowns. “But Mr. Hebert always starts us like this.”
Beau raises one of his dark brows and smirks. “I’m not Mr. Hebert. I’m Mr. Landry.”
An unexpected laugh bursts from me. It’s so loud and obnoxious, I cover my mouth. Beau—er, Mr. Landry—shoots me a curious look. “Sorry,” I mutter.
He ignores my apology. “Okay, you th
ree line up in front of the mirror.”
Well, this is different.
Mr. Hebert patently had me avoid looking in the mirror, which I greatly preferred since who wants to look at her uncoordinated and out-of-sync dance moves?
“We’re warming up for Cajun dancing?” Ramon scoffs.
“No one can dance well when they’re stressed.” Beau points to me. “And she’s stressed.”
He’s not wrong. But I’m normally stressed when I’m trying to dance. Actually, I’m normally stressed. Period.
Beau taps his phone and music fills the room. Except it’s not Cajun music. It’s Bill Withers.
The opening bass notes of the R&B song surprise a smile from me. Soul music is the last thing I expect from him.
“Hands up. Pinkies pointing in.” Beau faces us, raising his hands over his head in a way that makes the dress shirt he’s wearing draw tight around his narrow waist and muscled chest. The lines of his torso distract me just enough so that I’m off to a slow start and throw my hands in the air like a Scooby Doo zombie.
“And breathe in.” The vaulting of his ribs expands as his chest swells with breath. I mimic him, but he looks steady, and I’m sure I’ll tip over any minute. “And out.”
I exhale.
“And in again. Make it bigger this time.” He reaches higher, breathes deeper. I do the same. At least, I think I do. “And out.”
My lungs empty.
Beau shakes his head. “You’re barely breathing.”
“I’m breathing,” I argue.
“You’re not. Arms down.” I drop my arms and realize only after watching Beau—and Ray and Sally’s reflections—that they lower theirs slowly, not like their arms are bundles of logs.
“Move with your breath,” Beau coaches, this time sweeping his arms up in a graceful ascent as he breathes in. I do my level best to imitate him, rocking forward on my toes as I move.
“Anchor in the heels.” The words are corrective, but they don’t come out harsh. I press into my heels as I follow Beau’s lead and breathe out.
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