Devil's Food at Dusk

by Anna Martin

  “Fine. Steady.”

  The first sip of beer was heavenly.

  “Have you thought any more about—”

  “Not now, Dad. I’d really like to eat my food instead of talking about soul suckers.”

  Tom nodded and left it alone.

  Just as Remy’s sore back started to relax, Estelle stuck her head out of the kitchen and called them in to the dining room. Remy rolled his shoulders, smiled at his grandmother, and forced himself to his feet.

  “Sit by me, Uncle Andre,” Stella called as Remy walked into the dining room. She was sitting on a booster seat, her chubby fists bunched on the edge of the table. Magnolia and Stella had been coming to Sunday brunch nearly as long as they’d been living above the restaurant. Magnolia gave him an apologetic smile, and Remy kissed her head as he passed.

  “Sorry,” she whispered.

  “Don’t be,” he said and took the seat to Stella’s right. That put him next to his grandmother at the head of the table and right opposite Sal and his dad. Great.

  Andre had gone all out, preparing two huge pans of shrimp, blackened with spices just as their grandfather’s recipe specified and served with baked sweet potato, corn, the fennel salad, and mixed wild rice. It was the sort of homey Cajun cooking they took pride in serving at Lumiere, food that represented their roots.

  “This looks amazing,” Remy said as Andre slid the second platter of shrimp onto the table. “You’ve outdone yourself this time.”

  “I had help,” Andre said with a smile, nodding at their father.

  “Nice work, Dad.” Remy grinned.

  They held hands and bowed their heads as Tom said grace—not because the family was particularly religious, but because they knew what it was like to face hardship, both personally and from watching the people in their city lose everything, and giving thanks for a meal felt like the right thing to do. As soon as he was done, the room erupted in noise and conversation, dishes passed from one end of the table to another, mothers fussing over children eating enough, sharing, behaving themselves.

  Remy leaned over and cut Stella’s sweet potato in half, decorated it with a little butter, salt, and pepper, as she liked it, and fluffed up the inside so it was easier for her to eat. He served her some shrimp—not too much—and plenty of rice and salad in the hopes she’d eat it.

  “Thanks, Remy,” Magnolia said as he settled back with his own dinner.

  “No problemo,” he said with a grin.

  “So, Remy,” Sal said from across the table, and Remy’s stomach and his appetite sank. To prove a point, he took a mouthful of the shrimp and held his brother’s look while he chewed and swallowed.

  “Mhmm?”

  “Sorry I couldn’t make the meeting yesterday. Dad said things went well.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” Remy said lightly, aware that his grandmother wouldn’t allow heated words at her dinner table. “It’s not a good plan. We’re not selling.”

  Sal rolled his eyes. “They could offer you four million dollars for that junkyard and you wouldn’t be convinced.”

  “It’s worth that.”

  “Jesus, Remy.”

  “Sal,” Estelle snapped, and Remy enjoyed the vindication.

  “They want to turn our beautiful family restaurant into some plastic chain bar, Grams,” Remy said. He tried to keep his voice even. It wasn’t easy. “This Fitzgerald guy would turn Magnolia’s apartment into a bar serving cocktails by the jug to frat boys and tourists. Everything we’ve spent years building as a family, would be erased overnight.”

  “We have to fight for it,” Andre added from farther down the table. “It’s our heritage.”

  “The business needs a lot of help financially,” Tom said, shaking his head. “I know I said I’d let you run it, Remy, and I’m not going back on my word. But that old place…. I don’t even know what to do anymore.”

  “How far in the red are you this month?” Sal asked bluntly.

  “None of your goddamn business,” Remy muttered, then held his hands up in apology to his grandmother. “It’s gotten more profitable lately.” He didn’t want to say that he and Andre had been busily dragging it back from the brink of destruction where their father had left it. Tom could cook like a god but running the books… not his strength. They’d made so many improvements. It somehow seemed like it was never enough.

  “Yes, but still it’s far enough that we need to seriously consider this offer,” Sal said.

  “Seriously,” his dad added. “We’ve spent too many years working too hard and losing money on that old place. It’s one thing after another. If we have a winter storm again like last year and the plumbing goes, or the roof or the foundations or the windows…. You know how expensive it is to fix things when you have the preservationists breathing down your neck.”

  “I know, Dad,” Remy said. “I know. I’ve been working on it.” It was so frustrating not to be able to say that he was fixing shit that should’ve been fixed years ago. He couldn’t disrespect his father that way, though. Not in front of the whole family. “The food is good. People love the place. We get good review after good review, and business is picking up. It’s the beating heart of the French Quarter, and you know it.”

  “I’ve been doing some calculations,” Sal said. He set his fork down, seemingly aware he had the attention of the whole table. The room had gone suddenly quiet. “If we took Fitzgerald’s offer, we’d have enough to clear the major debts and maybe buy somewhere else. Or renovate this house so it’s up to modern standards.”

  “No,” Andre cried. “No. Dad, tell him he’s being an asshole, and our restaurant is none of his damn business.”

  Tom shrugged. “It’s a possibility.”

  “It’s the most practical option,” Sal agreed.

  “It’s my fucking decision,” Remy growled, not bothering to apologize this time. “My restaurant. My decision. That was the deal when I took over. I’ve been—” There it was again. He’d been pulling it up out of the mud and, yeah, it wasn’t quite there yet, but fuck.

  “Yes,” Tom agreed. “It was. Things have changed, though, Remy. It’s getting more and more economically attractive to sell to an out-of-state property manager. They’ll retain the integrity of the building.”

  As if his father knew anything about the economy. Remy refused to throw a complete tantrum in front of his entire family, and he was hovering on the edge of losing his cool completely, so he did the only thing he could do. He stood, shoved his chair back, and stalked out of the room.

  The apartment Joe was renting on Toulouse Street was refreshingly airy and cool. The loft wasn’t much more than a generously sized studio, but the high-beamed ceilings, wood floors, and light-colored walls gave the impression of warmth and space. And it had air-conditioning. Really, really good air-conditioning.

  The apartment didn’t have a desk, so Joe was using the dining table as his base of operations, which was less than ideal. His back was aching from the uncomfortable chairs and had been for hours. He made a quick decision, opened a new browser window, and ordered a desk chair to be delivered. He’d either leave it at the apartment or have it donated when he moved on. He needed a few home comforts to be able to work, and from the feeling in the air at Lumiere, he figured he’d be in New Orleans longer than expected.

  Since his tense meeting at Lumiere, he’d been looking for a way out.

  He pushed all the research he’d done in his office to one side and started over, fresh slate, to try to find another property in the French Quarter. It had to be in the blocks surrounding Bourbon; the quadrant he’d marked off had the highest footfall of any neighborhood in New Orleans. Especially tourist footfall. The problem was that Lumiere was a damn near ideal location. It fit his holy trinity of requirements: location, vulnerability, potential. What he never factored in was the human part. They could be so difficult.

  Joe pushed his reading glasses up onto his head and rubbed the heels of his hands into his aching eye sock
ets. Only once in his career had he been hit so hard on the human factor, and he hadn’t liked it one bit. The last time it had been with a young woman in Atlanta who had dreamed of opening her own cupcake place. It had done well for a few years; then cupcakes started to slide out of fashion, and her business followed the decline. Joe had seen it in her eyes: the desperation, the fear, the way she’d begged him not to take the one thing that had meant shit to her in her whole entire life. The only thing she’d ever been good at, her single achievement.

  He’d overpaid on that buyout, giving her enough to clear the debts and tide her over for a few months until she found something else. And he’d warned her away from more cupcakes. Lumiere was not supposed to be another Gabrielle’s Cupcake Hut. It couldn’t be.

  Joe circled the names of a few other restaurants in the area that he’d scope out while waiting for Team Babineaux to come back to him. None of them would be as good as Lumiere—the big corps had been buying up property right and left, renovating it tastefully and turning it into fancy boutique hotels and candy shops that sold the French Quarter’s absolute best pralines, caramel turtles, and sweet tea. Though if it came to it, having a Pineapple Joe’s in a less than perfect location would be better than not having one at all. They’d just have to promo the hell out of the damn thing.

  His phone buzzed on the table.

  Howard.

  “Joe Fitzgerald,” he said as he answered, always professional.

  “Fitz,” Howard said. “How’re things in The Big Easy?”

  “Hot,” Joe said drily. “And humid.”

  Howard laughed warmly. “And the deal?”

  There was no point in lying to Howard. The real situation would get back to him one way or another even if he was far up the chain from day-to-day operations. “Proving more complicated than I expected,” Joe said, forcing lightness into his voice. “This family is like rabbits, I swear. Every time I think I’ve got them all, a whole bunch of them jump out of the hole.”

  “Dealing with some resistance?”

  “Just a little.” Understatement of the decade. “Mostly from the brother who runs the day-to-day operations. He’s a bleeding-heart —has some single mother shacked up in the apartment upstairs who he’s charging peanuts for rent, probably gives away leftovers to the homeless. That guy.”

  Howard chuckled. “You know we like to give you the challenging cases. It’s because you’re the best.”

  “How’s Rosy?” Joe asked, switching the topic to Howard’s wife. He didn’t want to talk about complicated situations or dark, sexy chefs who were a huge pain in his ass.

  “She’s well. Sends her love.”

  “Send mine back.”

  “I will. Joe…. Emma’s engaged.”

  “Oh.” Good for her. “Wow.” Joe would’ve expected to feel nothing about his longtime sort-of-girlfriend’s removal from the market. He didn’t exactly feel nothing, but loss wasn’t the right word either. It left him quiet and somewhat shocked.

  “Sorry, Fitz, I didn’t want you to hear it on the grapevine. You know how gossip travels.”

  “We’re still friends, Howard,” Joe reminded him gently. “I’m happy for her. Who’s the lucky guy?”

  “Some….” Howard cleared his throat. “Musician she met in the city, or so she says. Latino. He came out of nowhere.” He didn’t sound especially pleased. Joe was afraid to ask which part he found most displeasing. Sometimes it was better not to know the answers to questions like that.

  “Please tell her congratulations from me.”

  “Will do,” Howard said. “Let me know if you need some more ammunition on this case. I’m happy to provide reinforcements.”

  “It should be fine,” Joe said, back to his usual cocky confidence.

  “Does the family have a daughter?” Howard asked. Joe knew that tone of voice. Time for a shut down... not that he hadn’t been ready and willing to do it previously.

  “Yes. She’s fourteen.” As in, no. Absolutely not.

  “Too bad. You could talk the mother into bed?”

  “I’d prefer not to.” Seeing as how he’d already managed to take the son to bed. And that had turned out so well for everyone involved.

  Howard laughed again, and Joe heard the buzzer in Howard’s office, a signal from his secretary. “Gotta run, old friend. I’ll speak to you soon.”

  “Good to hear from you, Howard,” Joe said and hit the red button to end the call.

  He dropped his head to the table and thumped it lightly a few times. It was just like Howard to suggest talking some woman into bed to seal the deal—that had been one of his favorite activities, back in the day. Joe didn’t dare think how many illegitimate heirs Howard had running around from his affairs back in the eighties. God forbid any of them poked their heads up now. It would make inheritance a nightmare.

  Seducing Remy back into bed was definitely a possibility, though, whether or not it would help with the sale. He smiled at the thought of those dark eyes, soft lips, how they’d stretched into an O of pleasure when Remy came.

  Joe would keep that image in the back of his mind. Maybe he’d bump the seduction plan up over the more traditional route. It wasn’t as if things could go any worse.

  Chapter Three

  Apart from family dinner, Mondays were Remy’s favorite day of the week. He loved Lumiere—loved it with all his heart and soul—but it was damn nice to have a break sometimes. He never managed to sleep in much. His body craved it, but the sounds of the family waking usually had him at least halfway awake, and the sun did the rest of the job. If he hadn’t been there already, the gentle knock on the door would have woken him up the rest of the way.

  “Do you want some coffee, sugar?” his mother asked quietly. She seemed to do everything quietly. In a family of bright colors and big voices, she was kind of like a faded flower, still beautiful, but happy to be in the background, slightly disintegrated around the edges from time.

  “Come on in, Ma.” Remy never slept without at least boxers on at home. He’d learned that lesson once when Grace was about ten. Once was more than enough.

  His door opened slowly, and Sophie Babineaux came in with coffee, some fruit, and a muffin. The house smelled amazing, so she’d probably just baked them that morning. She had on a thin-strapped tank top and a long, flowy skirt, but she still already looked a bit wilted from the heat. She looked happy but tired. His mom put his tray down on the bedside table and perched on the edge of his bed. Remy sat up and cupped her shoulder.

  “You okay? You look sleepy.”

  Sophie nodded. “I haven’t been sleeping much. Between your grams and your sister and this restaurant man in here trying to talk your dad out of Lumiere, I have too much on my brain to get to sleep at night.”

  Remy sighed. Two of those had been on his plate for days as well. The third one, well—“What’s up with Gracie bear?” he asked. He hadn’t been paying much attention to his sister the past few weeks, especially since she’d started up at school again. She seemed fine when she came to the cafe after school, but Remy wasn’t an expert on teenage girls.

  “I don’t know. She won’t tell me anything anymore, and she spends so much time in her room with Susannah.”

  “Mama, she’s a teenager now. They’re all like that.”

  “How much experience do you have with teenage girls?” His mom shot him a skeptical look. She was used to him being a know-it-all, though. She only took him down a peg or two when he really needed it.

  “None.” Remy made a face at her, but then he pulled her into a loose hug. “I can try to talk to Gracie if you want. Pick her up after school and have some brother-sister time.”

  “Can you?”

  “’Course. I mean, she might ditch me for Susannah, but I’ll try.”

  So Remy was waiting by Grace’s school when she got out. She’d just started ninth grade, and a big part of Remy was glad that her all-girls school went through twelfth. He loved Gracie to death, but the thought of her,
small and outspoken, in a huge public school terrified him. She had a lot of opinions, growing up as the very spoiled baby of the family. Grace was sassy and independent. She was smart too, and had a lot of plans for the future, but he could see her mouth getting her in trouble at a public school with too many kids for the teachers and administration to give her individual attention. Yeah, it was definitely better for her to stay where she was.

  St. Clare’s Academy was a beautiful old building, whitewashed and covered in ivy. It had a wrought-iron gate and a courtyard where the girls could sit during their breaks. Remy liked picturing his sister there, still with the friends she’d had since she was little.

  Grace might have been growing up quickly, but there was so much of her that was still a little girl. Her little face lit up when she saw Remy outside the building, leaning against a tree in the sidewalk.

  “Hey, sis.”

  “What are you doing here?” Grace was walking with her friend Susannah. They’d known each other since the first day of kindergarten. They were opposites in so many ways, but they’d always been close. Grace was tall and curvy, with piles of dark hair and big dark eyes. Susannah was small and pale and quiet, from a well-off family who lived in the Garden District. Grace had always been protective of her best friend. Remy was proud of the way she treated the girl like family. That was the Babineaux way.

  “Just wanted to see if you were too busy for some brother time.”

  Grace looked at Susannah, who shrugged. “I did promise my mother I’d help her pick out a gown for the benefit next week.”

  “You okay to get home?” Grace asked her.

  “Of course. I’ll just call Blaine. He’ll come get me.”

  Remy sometimes marveled at the fact that Susannah lived in a mansion and had a driver. She seemed so at home in the Babineaux house. It had to be so different from her palace in the Garden District.

  “’Kay. See you tomorrow.” Grace leaned over for their customary kiss on the cheek. They’d been doing it since they were little girls.