French Quarter Kisses

by Zuri Day

  Several people stood and shared stories of what the New Orleans restaurant had meant in their lives. All too quickly, it was Roz’s turn to go to the microphone.

  “Hello, Marc. You don’t know me. My name is Roz and I’m from New Orleans.”

  She paused as some people clapped and cheered.

  “Recently, a restaurant opened that has taken the city by storm. The owner is one of your protégés.” She saw Marc Fisher turn and look around the room. “As you know, Friday nights are busy. Pierre really wanted to be here, and sent this special greeting.”

  Everyone turned to where a white screen hung from the ceiling. A video began, of a smiling Pierre against a plain background.

  “Hey, Marc. You know that there are absolutely no words to say for what you’ve meant in my life. Almost everything I know about what goes on in a kitchen I learned from you. Wish I could be there. Because if I were, man, I would show you how much better I prepare your specialty dish. That’s right, Marc. I’d start with your signature dish, and make it better than you!”

  The crowd’s focus swung between the screen and Marc’s antics, as he raised his fists and screamed that not even in Pierre’s dreams could he come close to doing so.

  “Marc, I’d serve all of those wonderful guests in your restaurant my take on your famous take on the Oyster Rockefeller, the Houston Oysters!”

  He held up a tray of yummy-looking treats. The shot widened as Pierre began walking. Eyes were on Marc as the hallway became familiar and it suddenly dawned on him that Pierre was there! The restaurateur jumped up and ran toward the back, meeting Pierre as the door opened, and almost upending the tray. One of the assistants managed to take it away before Marc grabbed Pierre in a bear hug.

  The room erupted in cheers. With tears streaming down his cheeks, and Pierre’s eyes rather bright, too, Marc swung his arm around his friend’s neck. That’s how they entered the dining room, to sustained applause.

  The assistant brought the tray Pierre had carried to Marc’s table, followed by a team of waiters with trays for the room. Pierre accepted the microphone from the evening’s host. Marc used a big linen napkin to unabashedly wipe his eyes.

  “Ennis, I think we got him.”

  Ennis nodded as Pierre and the crowd laughed and applauded.

  “When I heard there was a program being put together to celebrate twenty-five years of some of the best creole food outside of New Orleans, there was no way I’d miss it,” Pierre went on. “For me this place, that man, changed everything. When I arrived here in Houston almost fifteen years ago, I was in the lowest place of my life. Hungry, too,” he said with a laugh, “which is how I ended up here. And broke. I literally needed to work for my food.

  “It would turn out to be the best meal I ever ate, one that would start me on the road to my dreams and have me standing here tonight to help honor a man who is my friend, mentor, father figure...and an alright cook. Marc Fisher.”

  The party went until midnight, with Marc entertaining his table by regaling them with stories of Pierre’s teenaged years. Roz had never seen Pierre this happy, and she herself hadn’t laughed so hard in a very long time. With promises to see each other soon for more quality time, the crowd eventually dispersed and headed to their cars.

  In the limo, Roz leaned her head against Pierre’s shoulder. “You know what I thought tonight, as you gave your speech?”

  “Hmm?”

  “I thought about life’s ironies and how we can never predict the outcome. I know you hate your mom, but in a weird, twisted way, her abandoning you and Lisette brought you here. It sucked at the time, but had she come back to get you, who knows what would have happened?”

  Pierre shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “But we know what happened because you stayed. Just an interesting way to look at things.”

  He raised a brow. “Didn’t you mention talking to Lisette today?”

  “Yes, and no, this perspective isn’t a result of talking with her. In fact, when it came to how you feel about your mom and whether or not you should meet her, I told her that it was your right to be as angry as you wanted for as long as you needed. That each of you has different memories from different experiences, so how you interact with your mom, or not, may end up being totally different, too.”

  “You told her that?”

  “I did.”

  “Thank you, baby. You’re smarter than you look.”

  Roz punched him. Pierre wrapped his arms around her to stop the assault. The ride became quiet, as she took in Houston’s downtown skyline and imagined a young Pierre trying to survive in the sprawling city. Once inside the hotel suite, the lovers made love as they took a shower, then crawled into bed and did it again. Their flight back to New Orleans was not until noon. With her body fully sated, Roz relaxed, closed her eyes and welcomed blissful sleep.

  “What would I say to her?”

  Roz’s eyelids fluttered. Was she dreaming or was that Pierre? She shifted to face him. “What, babe?”

  “If I saw my mother again, what would I say?”

  Roz pondered his question. “Maybe start with hello?”

  “That’s a given. I’m talking about after the superficial pseudo-sociable how-are-you-doing bull crap. I’m older now, but when I think of her it’s with the emotions of right after I last saw her. It’s the fifteen-year-old Pierre. That kid was so angry. Blamed her for everything. What she did was wrong and I don’t know how trying to say that to her face would go.”

  “There’s no way we can ever know what will happen in any given situation. But I know what will happen if you don’t meet her. Nothing. And maybe that’s okay. It’s for you to decide. But while you’re deciding, think of that fifteen-year-old who blamed her for everything. Because part of that everything is the amazing man you are today.”

  Chapter 22

  Another week went by. Roz and Pierre continued to grow closer. The light, easygoing mood of the man she’d met returned. Roz would like to think she was part of the reason. But a second reason had to be the invitation he’d gotten to join another popular Chow Channel star on a segment being filmed in Europe. Pierre had received the text yesterday morning, would board a plane for London late this afternoon, shoot for two days, and return to the States either Thursday or Friday. Roz was tempted to go, but he discouraged it, only because he knew they’d be working almost nonstop. He suggested the two of them fly over after the holidays, when after the kind of rush Easy Creole Cuisine anticipated, he’d be more than ready for a vacation.

  Roz had observed something else. With each passing day since their trip to Houston, Pierre moved ever so slightly closer to the possibility of someday considering a conversation with his mom. Lisette was sure that she wanted to talk with her but at her therapist’s suggestion promised to consider waiting until after getting her master’s degree. While she felt ready, the truth was there was no way to really know what impact seeing her mother would have on her, what hidden emotions, feelings or memories would come up. The year she planned to take off before going for her doctorate would be a good time to bring the past and the present back together.

  Work was back on track for Roz. After using freelancers for the past three months, Andy had finally hired Ginny’s permanent replacement. Paige was a native to the city with connections everywhere, resulting in the gossipy-style stories the editor-in-chief and the public craved. Those two had their heads together from Paige’s first day. Roz felt it might not be long before other body parts came together, as well. Fine by her. They were both single and both adults. Roz had more time to develop relevant, news-oriented stories, and with the holidays approaching there’d be no lack of social, civic and business topics that, with a unique perspective or spin, could make for great reading.

  Roz pulled out her laptop and was double-checking her research when her cell phone face lit up. She tapped the screen
and saw a missed call from Flint. She opened her desk drawer, put on her headset and returned the call.

  “Good morning, Flint. You must have phoned just as I went to get coffee. What’s going on?”

  “I’m following up with that last case you gave me. Juliette LeBlanc?”

  “Right.”

  “And the DNA sample from her granddaughter, Lisette?”

  “Did you find a match?”

  “I did. I found her.”

  “That’s excellent, Flint. Lisette will be so happy to hear that news. Can you send over all the particulars, the claim forms and—”

  “I’m ahead of you, Roz. Putting together an email with all of that. You’ll get it in a few.”

  “You’re the man.”

  “I try.”

  “Thanks. Talk to you later.”

  “Oh, Roz.”

  “Yes.”

  “Regarding that info on the other case you needed. Did you get it?”

  “What other case?”

  “The other LeBlanc. The one in California.”

  A slow chill began at the nape of her neck and slid down her spine. “I didn’t request a resend, Flint.”

  “Not directly. But somebody called and had it sent over to you.”

  Roz pulled her laptop closer, began typing notes. “What day was this?”

  “Early last week. Monday or Tuesday. The call came in to the office phone, so I don’t have a time stamp right in front of me.”

  “I didn’t request that.”

  “Sorry, Roz. It sounded legit.”

  “No worries. It’s probably a mix-up on this end. Take care.”

  Roz hung up the phone as Andy’s door opened. Paige threw back her hair, tossed a flirty look over her shoulder and closed the door. Her eyes widened when she saw Roz, who rarely came in before nine or nine thirty.

  “Oh! Hi, Roz.”

  “Good morning.”

  Roz noted her jumpy reaction as she passed her on the way to Andy’s office. She tapped the door lightly and then opened it. “Got a minute?”

  “Roz! You’re here early.”

  Was she imagining things or was that a shade of light red creeping up his neck?

  “We’ve got a problem.”

  “We do?” Andy leaned back in his chair, laced his fingers together behind his head.

  “Playing stupid doesn’t become you, Andy.”

  “How am I supposed to know what you’re talking about?”

  “Who called Flint from this office?”

  “Oh, that.” He gave a little smile and didn’t meet her eyes.

  Roz walked over and sat in a chair in front of his desk. “Why?”

  “It’s not personal, Roz. It’s business. You’re not the only one who has connections.”

  “Oh, really. So that’s why you called my connection, used my name and finagled information out of him?”

  “It’s a small world, Roz. You’re not the only person who knows Flint.”

  “Yes, but I’m the only one who had the name you, or someone you put up to it, extracted private information about.”

  “I was curious. As journalists, we’re cutthroat. We get the story. You got it and then squashed it. Made me more and more determined to solve the mystery. Who would Roz hold back a story for, one that could be nationally recognized? Then I found out. Pierre LeBlanc. Wow. Lost his mom, or so he thought. Life goes on and then out of the blue, she reappears. How did you get the lead on that?”

  Roz’s stomach knotted and roiled. “Don’t run the story, Andy.”

  “Not your story anymore, Roz. Paige stumbled on a real breaker.”

  Roz got the whole picture with that one line. “Have you interviewed her? The mom?”

  “This past weekend. Saturday and Sunday. Good human interest angle. Mother missing her kids. Wants to get back in their lives but doesn’t know how. Public appeal. A family reunited. The city will eat it up and love LeBlanc even more.”

  “So you’ve talked to Pierre?”

  “No, we figured that’s what you tried and that’s what brought you into my office refusing to release his name.”

  “Then how can you possibly imagine this having a happy ending?”

  “We can hope. But how it ends isn’t the main focus. Generating the buzz is what we’re after. And we don’t need an interview with the chef for that.”

  “You’re a great journalist, Andy, and a good person with a conscience, and integrity. Or so I thought. This news has devastated Pierre and his sister who are trying to regain their life’s equilibrium after having their world rocked. A hard enough job handled privately. The news going public could destroy lives, careers. I’m asking you as a colleague and a friend. Don’t do this.”

  Andy cocked his head. “Are you sleeping with him?”

  Roz leaped over the desk, punched the editor in the chest and then slapped him senseless. In her mind.

  “Are you sleeping with Paige?” she countered instead, and stood. “So after a year and a half, this is where we’re at, you and I?”

  “It’s not our first difference of opinion, Roz.”

  “But it’s a deal breaker, Andy. Look, let’s figure out how we can both feel comfortable with this. I’ll do the story. I’ll interview Pierre and his sister. Do a follow-up call with the mom. But if you want a well-rounded, unbiased article, and that’s the type we should run with a topic like this, then it’s only fair that all parties know what’s coming out in the paper before the first customer who buys it off the street.”

  “You can give Pierre and whoever else a heads-up if you’d like. Tell them the story is running tomorrow.”

  “Oh, so I was also going to be in the dark. You and Paige have obviously worked on this from the time she was hired.” Roz looked at Andy, but instead of him, she saw a job she loved and that she’d worked at over a year and a half begin to fade away. If the story ran, she’d quit. There was no way she’d work for someone who’d betray her.

  “Should I clean out my desk now?”

  “Come on, Roz. You’re being overly dramatic about something that hasn’t even happened yet. This might turn out better than any of us could imagine. Read the article. Wait and see the chef’s response. The city’s response. All of this may be much ado about nothing.”

  “I surely hope so, Andy. Meanwhile I need to step out of the office and make some calls.”

  Roz dared not look at Paige, the young woman who’d given her a sugary greeting while hiding a bloodstained knife. She gathered up her purse and laptop, her fingers already tapping Pierre’s number before she was out of the door.

  The call went to voice mail. “Pierre, hi, it’s me. I know you’re eight or nine hours ahead over there, so whenever you get this message, please give me a call. It’s important that I talk with you as soon as possible. Okay? Hope all is going well.” Roz paused, almost added, “I love you.”

  But instead, she said goodbye, scrolled to Lisette’s name and placed the call.

  Chapter 23

  “Roz? Hello? Roz... I can’t hear you. Wait. Let me walk around a bit.”

  “Cell phone’s almost impossible here, mate.”

  Pierre nodded at the cameraman who’d stated the obvious. He sent a quick text instead and within minutes was called back onto the set, on a private island owned by the show’s producer. The scenery was idyllic. The castle, with its three-story ceilings, countless bedrooms and baths, three custom kitchens and a working moat, was something out of another era. For Pierre, so was their cell reception.

  Because of Wednesday’s intense filming schedule, cast and crew spent Tuesday night in the castle. Before going to bed he was given the use of a satellite phone and again tried reaching Roz. The call went to voice mail. Filming wrapped up late Wednesday night. The group of almost thirty people boarded a
yacht back to London. As the city lights came into view cell phone service kicked in, evidenced by Pierre’s message and missed call indicators pinging for what felt like five minutes straight. Thinking it might have something to do with Lisette, he jerked the phone out of its holder and began to scroll. There were a ton of texts and messages from Cathy, Don, Ed, Riviera, Lisette, friends from around the country, Roz—many times—and a slew of media and entertainment television outlets.

  Remembering Roz’s message from yesterday, and bursting with news to share with her today, he clicked on the text icon, found hers and scrolled up.

  Pierre, that was a really bad connection. Assuming we got disconnected. Very important that I talk with you soonest. Please call back.

  The next one, sent an hour later.

  Babe, just tried calling again. Sending this text because of time-sensitive news. Don’t want to upset you but it’s urgent. Call tonight, no matter what time, before news breaks tomorrow.

  Pierre’s brow creased as he scrolled to the next message, this one with a link attached. It was sent Wednesday morning, at four forty-two.

  I hate sharing this by text but have found no way to reach you and you need to know ASAP. No easy way to say this either. The story about your mom being alive is in today’s edition of NO Beat.

  What? He sat up, wiped his eyes. It had been a couple of nonstop days and nights for him and the crew. He was a little groggy. Had to be. It was the only way he could have seen what he thought he saw. He took a breath and looked again. The words were the same. Need to know ASAP. No easy way to say this. He finished the text.

  Tried to get story pulled. Or delayed. Didn’t want this. So sorry, Pierre. I am hoping for the best.

  The best? What good could come out of her putting his past and what happened with his mother on display for the world to read about? Tried to get it pulled or delayed? How about not writing it in the first place? How about that?

  Sitting back, Pierre found images of the past few months and their whirlwind time together playing as a video in his mind. Every act she’d done, every word, took on new meaning. All the times she’d asked about his family, and their experience during Hurricane Katrina. Was it all part of a grand plan to get the scoop on the Quarter’s newest chef?