by Liz Talley
Tre shot Eleanor an apologetic look. “I’m sorry to involve you. I didn’t have nobody to call. Cici ain’t the right person for sure.” He spread his hands, a tremor evident in his voice.
“You did the right thing. Both Dez and I are your friends.” She tried to convey that in her gaze. She touched his forearm. “You know we care about you.”
He nodded as the door opened and a slight man with a receding hairline slipped in. An African-American with a suit that looked straight out of GQ magazine, this man seemed to be playing the role of good cop. He stuck out a hand to Dez. “Reuben Clancy.”
Then to her. His hand was dry and warm, and for some reason she trusted him. She figured it was designed that way. Have gruff and lumbering greet them, and suave and sincere butter them up. Or at least that’s how it worked on cop shows.
Clancy sat in the empty chair across from Tre and opened a folder. “Okay, Tre. Time to talk. We helped you by calling your people, now you help us. We got three people dead, and one gravely injured. The boy is on the operating table as we speak.”
Tre’s eyes flickered to Dez before he centered them on the light switch. “I’ll tell you what I know, but you got to give me a deal.”
“A deal?” Eleanor squeaked, jetting a glance at Dez whose eyebrows had drawn together. “You need a deal?”
“I don’t know. But I know I gotta be out. I gotta work and take care of Shorty D and Kenzie. She’s going to school on Monday.”
The black detective tapped the table. “Let’s see what you gotta say.”
“No.” Tre shook his head. “I can’t stay in here.”
Eleanor drew Tre’s attention to her. “If we need to get an attorney, we will. If you’ve done nothing wrong, we’ll make sure you don’t get screwed.”
Tre stared at her for several seconds, exploring those words, testing them in his mind. Finally, he nodded. “I didn’t do anything wrong. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Okay, then. Tell them what happened so whoever did do something wrong, can be brought in,” Dez said.
Detective Blanchard pulled out a tape recorder and pressed a button. He recited the date, time and the case number and then looked at Tre expectantly.
Tre’s voice, methodical and calm, put together a picture of terror. Eleanor’s blood ran cold at what she heard. She’d known Tre lived in a rough part of New Orleans—she’d seen his address on the employment applications—but she hadn’t visualized the danger he and his family faced every day. His life on the streets of New Orleans was lived mere fifteen blocks from her own Uptown address… but so very far from her safe world. When Tre finished his account, he hung his head. “I never should have gone with Grady. I thought we were just going to hang. I let the old feelings get to me. I should have gone home. Then I wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t have seen my friend bleedin’ in the street.”
Detective Clancy’s eyes were flat. “True, but your quick response with the passenger in the backseat may have saved his life.”
Tre looked up. “Yeah, but what kind of life is that?”
Dez cleared his throat. “You think there’s no value in saving that dude? No value in you? Me?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You implied it. Some of us are born in the streets, but that doesn’t define us, Tre. We have choices. Your friends had choices. That life’s sometimes hard is no reason to think it’s not worth doing.”
The detective clicked off the recorder. “Tre, I know tonight was difficult for you. I’ve been out in the world long enough to understand some guys feel like the police don’t care about what happens in the streets, but you’re wrong. Every person matters. Your friend Grady might have made some mistakes, but he mattered. We’ll do our best to find who did this. That’s our job. Your job is to take the gifts you’ve been given and use them. I’ll do my job. You do yours.”
The other detective signaled Clancy and jerked his head toward the door.
“If you folks will excuse me.” He picked up the recorder, closed the folder and followed the larger detective out of the room, the door snicking shut behind them.
“Sorry,” Tre said, spreading his hands, catching sight of the blood on his sleeves and frowning. “I messed up tonight.”
“Yes,” Eleanor said, folding her hands and studying a ragged nail that needed filing. Funny how the most mundane of things struck a person in odd moments, like sitting in a police interrogation room. “But you also did a lot of things that were smart. Like leaving when you could. Going back when you were needed. We all make mistakes. It’s how we handle living with the repercussions that’s the measure of our character.”
Tre studied her. “That sounds like something on a poster at school.”
“Maybe that’s where I got it.”
Dez sank into the chair the detective vacated moments before. “You’re not in trouble.”
“I was an accessory or something. I was in the car. They pin that shit on people.”
The door opened. “Mr. Jackson?”
“Yeah?”
“I need to get some contact information since you are a material witness and then you’ll be free to go. Please write down your address, your place of employment and your home and cell phone numbers. Can you do that?” He passed a legal pad to Eleanor along with a pen.
She handed it to Tre with a smile. “See?”
Relief washed over Tre’s young face as he took the pad and pen. “Sure.”
The door closed again as Tre scratched the needed info on the pad. After he clicked the pen closed, he looked up. “Thank you for coming down here. Not many people would do that.”
“You have a poor opinion of people, don’t you?” Dez said.
Tre shrugged but said nothing.
“I get it,” Dez said, studying the boy who was more man than boy. But at that moment, all Eleanor could see was a child, a frightened child who’d seen too much of the underside of life. “You haven’t had much reason to expect people to care about you, but if you’d stop squeezing yourself into what you think you should be, you might find you can be more than expected. You might find happiness. You might find a family.”
As Dez’s words fell on Tre, they also fell on her. Was he killing two birds with one stone? Had he meant those words as much for her as he had meant them for Tre?
Tre stood. “When life shits on you, it’s hard not to want an umbrella.”
Dez nodded. “That’s a good analogy, but if you’re always carrying an open umbrella, you’ll never feel the sun on your shoulders. I don’t know about you, but I like the way the sun feels on my face. It’s okay to put down the damn umbrella.”
“I did. I called y’all, didn’t I?”
Eleanor pulled Tre into a quick, hard hug. She released him and stepped back. “I’m glad you did.”
For once, Tre didn’t look pained. “I am, too,” he said.
SEVERAL DAYS AFTER she and Dez had picked Tre up from the police station, three men were arrested in the triple homicide. The man Tre had called Hoops was still in critical condition… and Dez hadn’t called.
Eleanor sighed as she packed a few boxes to send to the Salvation Army. Two sets of dishes and several vases hadn’t sold in over two years, and with a new delivery expected from her English buyer in a few days containing dishes, Eleanor didn’t have the room to store the others.
Dez.
Her heart thrummed when she thought about him. He gave her space, she knew that, but still something inside her wanted him to demand more of her. Part of her wanted to be pushed into a corner in their relationship.
But it wasn’t his style to push her. He dropped hints, talked about growing and stretching, but he didn’t push.
She’d set the parameters and he’d played by them, but they both knew it had moved beyond friends with benefits long ago. Hell, they’d been past that when she’d declared the designation. Still, she missed him, wanted him to darken her doorstep and demand she forget her doubts.
/> “Your phone has been jittering like a june bug,” Pansy called from across the room. “Want me to get it?”
“No, it’s probably Margaret again. Or my mother. She’s feeling guilty about falling in with the Theriots, but I’m not ready to talk to her yet. I’m still pissed they showed up for that dog and pony show.”
Pansy walked over and sat Eleanor’s phone on a nearby table. “What about Blakely?”
“What about her? I haven’t heard the first thing from her other than a message asking me if I’d pick up her monogrammed pillowcase from LaBourge’s and mail it to her. And that request was delivered with a condescending, you’re-such–a-horrible person tone.”
Pansy tsked. “Maybe I need to talk to my monkey girl. She needs a come-to-Jesus meeting.”
“Don’t. I worked hard to instill the right ideals in her, so if she can’t realize what she’s doing on her own, then I’ve either failed or—” Eleanor grabbed the phone dancing on the surface of the table.
“What?”
There had been ten phone calls in the past thirty minutes—five of which were from Blakely. Two messages awaited her in the queue. “What in the world?”
“What?” Pansy said, craning her neck trying to see over Eleanor’s shoulder.
Eleanor punched the button and Blakely’s voice rang out. “What in the hell, Mom? I mean, really? It’s not bad enough you’re dating the guy, but now you’re letting him tell everyone about your sex life? Oh, my God. I’m so humiliated.”
The connection clicked.
“What does that mean?” Pansy asked, cocking her head at the phone like a dog when it hears a weird noise.
Dread curled around her gut as she pushed the next message.
It was Dez.
“Eleanor, you need to call me when you get this message. I can explain.”
“Oh, my God,” Eleanor breathed. “Explain what? Blakely said Dez told people about our sex life?”
“That doesn’t sound right,” Pansy said, crouching by the boxes Eleanor had been packing, and tucking the ends into each other. She grabbed the packing tape. “He wouldn’t do that.”
Just then the tinkle of the front door bell sounded and both women stilled, a sense of foreboding in the air. Pansy dropped the roll of tape and headed toward the front of the store. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t know, but it doesn’t feel good.” Eleanor followed her friend, dropping her phone into her apron pocket and wiping her sweating hands on the sides of her jeans.
A young woman stood in the middle of the aisle wagging her head from side to side as if she searched for someone. She wore a tight wrap dress, nude heels and her hair bore natural highlights… or the hand of a really good stylist.
“Can I help you?” Pansy asked.
“Oh, yes,” she said, with a big smile. “I’m looking for Eleanor Theriot?”
“For what?” Pansy asked, her shoulders rising defensively as she propped hands on her hips.
“I’m Natalie Primm from the Times Picayune. I’m a feature writer for the Living section and wanted to talk to her about a piece on her and Dez Batiste.”
Eleanor stepped from behind Pansy. “A piece? On… what?”
The woman swept her from head to toe with a discerning look. “Mrs. Theriot, I remember you from that whole nasty affair with your husband.”
Eleanor didn’t say anything. Just stared back wondering what in the hell had happened in the last hour or two to bring a reporter to her door and so many strange calls to her cell phone.
The woman held out a hand as if they’d met at a social mixer. “Nice to meet you. Hope you don’t mind me dropping in without an appointment. This whole thing is fascinating, and with the song going viral, I knew I had to be proactive.”
“What song? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The woman’s blue eyes grew to the size of the robin’s eggs in the spring display behind her. “You mean you don’t know?”
“Know what?” Pansy asked.
“The song by Dez Batiste? It’s gone viral on YouTube and everyone on social media is talking about it.”
Eleanor’s mind scrabbled trying to make sense—Blakely’s irate call, Dez’s tone of urgency and this woman talking about something viral? “A song by Dez? Maybe you’ve got the wrong person.”
“You are the wife of the politician who died in that murder/suicide thing, right?” The woman, uh, Natalie flipped through a small notebook and pulled her smartphone from her purse. “Eleanor Hastings Theriot? Married to Skeeter Theriot? Dating Dez Batiste, the musician?”
Eleanor nodded, wondering if Natalie would consider mutual friends with benefits as dating? “Yes, but I’m not sure about this thing on YouTube. What do you mean? Song?”
“Here,” the woman said, tapping a few buttons on her phone and extending her hand. Both Eleanor and Pansy moved toward her, watching as Natalie tapped the little curvy arrow.
Suddenly the screen came to life and Eleanor could see that the video had been filmed inside Blue Rondo.
“Look, that’s Tre,” Pansy said, pointing at the screen, taking the phone from Natalie.
“That’s his name?” Natalie asked, pulling a pen out and scribbling on her notepad.
“Shh!” Pansy said, shushing Natalie with a hand as Dez began playing something slow and soft. Eleanor watched enraptured as the camera focused on first Dez, whose head bobbed as he did his thing, fingers moving deftly over the keys, summoning forth the music. Then the guitars joined in, and finally, Tre lifted his horn, the wistful moans from his instrument rousing and evocative.
“That’s so pretty,” Pansy whispered, enthralled.
“I know, right?” Natalie said, craning her head toward the phone.
Eleanor and Pansy stood, silent as stone, watching the jam session on the cell phone screen. The music Dez played was haunting, and when accompanied by Tre on the saxophone, sent shivers up the spine… and back down again. But it was the words Dez crooned that made the fine hairs on the back of Eleanor’s neck stand up. Words about skin sliding against skin, the delicate beauty of two becoming one and of soft places to come home to—evocative, soulful and sexy. And then came the chorus… with her name in it.
“Oh,” Pansy said as Dez talked about the peace he found when he made love to Eleanor. “Wow, I think he’s talking about you.”
“You think?” Eleanor drawled, her heart beating in her ears.
Dear God. He’d written a song about making love to her.
Something tore lose in Eleanor… not the warm fuzzy feeling that should have flooded her when a gorgeous man sang about the way she changed him, healed him… but rather something cold and slithery. Something reminiscent of how she felt when she’d been blindsided by a dead husband and irrefutable proof of his unfaithfulness. Something reminiscent of a time when reporters stalked her, acquaintances poked their long noses into her business with the hope of sniffing out something deliciously titillating. All those horrible, horrible feelings of betrayal in her past slammed into her, leaving her an open throbbing nerve.
How dare he do this!
The man had taken the healing beauty of what they’d made together in the downy softness of the night and shared it with the world. Made it sound… dirty.
The song ended and Eleanor was paralyzed. The phone slid from her hand, but Pansy caught it, and handed it to the reporter who smiled at her like a jack o’ lantern.
“Awesome, isn’t it? Can’t believe you didn’t know about it. Total new element to explore in this story,” Natalie Primm said, her young face brimming with excitement as she pocketed the phone and clicked her pen. “Now can I get the spelling of the name of the guy playing the sax? He works for you, right?”
“Yes,” Pansy said, casting her gaze toward Eleanor, eyes wide and cautious, “but I think we need to regroup a moment.”
Natalie frowned. “And who are you?”
“I’m the manager.” Which wasn’t exactly true, but at that moment
Pansy was exactly who she said she was. Eleanor couldn’t “manage” words much less the situation.
“Okay, I’d like to do an exclusive interview. I tried calling Mr. Batiste, but he said he’s not taking questions. Maybe if you say you’re willing to talk about this deal, he’d climb aboard. People are very curious. It’s gotten over a million hits in less than eighteen hours.”
Pansy shook her head. “Look, I understand wanting to scoop stuff, or whatever you media types call it, but this isn’t going to happen right now.”
“Why not? This isn’t a bad thing. It’s good. That’s why the song got hot so fast. People are talking about it on Facebook and Twitter. Not to mention the way those two guys play. Why not let New Orleans get a glimpse into two of its most fascinating citizens, two people with a rough past who have found renewal? It’s got such a feel-good slant.”
“No, it’s not perfect, and it’s no one’s business,” Eleanor said, finding her voice, forcing her anger and disappointment down and finding the calm exterior she’d used for the last five years. She’d be damned if she let on how hurt she was at seeing Dez reveal in his soft baritone something so personal as making love with her.
Natalie’s face darkened. “Are you hiding something? Is that what this is?”
Eleanor pointed at the front door. “No, and you can leave now. I’m not answering questions about some random video. If anyone asks, I have no comment.”
The reporter shrugged. “Fine. People will draw their own conclusions.”
“They’re welcome to do so,” Eleanor said, turning on her loafer, walking to her office and closing the door. She didn’t bother saying “boo” to Pansy. She didn’t care that she’d been rude.
She leaned against the door.
Okay, Eleanor. Breathe.
With trembling hands, she clutched her stomach, which cramped at the thought of thousands of people watching Dez’s tender admonitions, soaking in his soul-stirring ballad of sex, tenderness and restoration. “Dear, Lord. Why did he do this?”