by Anna Martin
“What would you like to talk about?” Joe was wary. Incredibly so. He’d gotten a decent if somewhat standoffish response from Tom Babineaux, but the rest of them? Yikes. He couldn’t imagine what the hell one of the sons wanted with him.
“I’d like to discuss how your company is going to buy our family’s building,” Sal said.
Oh. Okay. To say Joe was surprised would’ve been a massive understatement. “I thought I was doing business with your father.”
“Technically you aren’t doing business with any of us. But my job is finance, and I’m not going to sit back and let my family run themselves into the ground to save an old building they should’ve let go of years ago.”
Doesn’t mince words, does he? It was the most direct conversation Joe’d had with anyone since he landed in his first Southern city—at least when it came to business. He had to admit that while it wasn’t exactly pleasant, it was refreshing. “And you think you can bring me your father, ready to sign?”
“I do. You’re going to have to be a little patient, though. I need to work on him a little bit.”
Joe gritted his teeth. “I can be patient.” That was probably his worst characteristic. He wanted what he wanted, and he wanted it ten days ago. Still. There wasn’t a better property anywhere in the French Quarter that he could see, not for their corporation’s needs and not for the price he thought he could get out of the Babineaux family. He would wait, even if he wanted to take every set of dumb kitschy beads on Bourbon Street and strangle Remy Babineaux with them. After they fucked one more time, because damn. Damn.
Joe needed to get the hell out of New Orleans. Sexual frustration and professional frustration weren’t a good combination. Especially not when combined with thick, heavy heat. He’d spent the past few nights remembering Remy’s body, his touch, the way he’d moaned Joe’s name. He’d spent his days not getting anywhere with his damn project. It wasn’t working out for him.
“That’s good,” Sal said. “Give me two weeks. I’ll get my dad to sign in two weeks.”
“Can you do it in one?”
Sal chuckled, low and quiet. “You’re in the South, Mr. Fitzgerald. I’m sure you’ve figured out how we work. You might as well kick back and get used to the way we do things down here. Hurry isn’t exactly in our vocabulary.”
No fucking kidding. He’d learned that in Atlanta. And Charleston. And Mobile. Apparently he was going to be learning it again. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Just sit tight, and I’ll work on my father. He’s going to see that this is the best thing to do. It doesn’t matter if Remy and Andre see it. The property doesn’t belong to them.”
“So I’ll be hearing from you soon?” Joe had an immediate dislike for the guy, but he swallowed it down. If Sal was Joe’s road to salvation, he didn’t care if the scenery sucked along the way.
“You’ll be hearing from me soon. I’ll keep you updated on my progress.”
* * *
After the phone call from Benedict Arnold Babineaux, who Joe would hate to be related to but might end up saving his professional ass, he decided he needed to get out of his rented apartment and breathe. It wasn’t the easiest thing to breathe outside in the thick, syrupy air, but he needed to get out anyway.
Joe felt like a tourist wandering around the streets with none of his business armor—no suit, no briefcase—just a phone, his wallet, and a key to his rental. He took stock of all the parts he didn’t like—the heat, the noise, the smell, the way everyone moved at a different pace than what he’d grown accustomed to. Joe was used to traveling, spent more time away than at home, but there was something about New Orleans that got to him, got under his skin. Made him uncomfortable. He wanted to close the damn Babineaux deal and get the hell out.
While he was out, Joe decided to hit the store. He needed more bottled coffee and some fruit and eggs for breakfast. The store was tiny, like most of the buildings in the French Quarter. Nothing like the sprawling Whole Foods he shopped at when he was at home.
Joe decided to take a different route back to his apartment because the thought of going back to that small space that held nothing but his computer and some work papers made him get antsy under his skin all over again. Of course he got lost. Of course. Joe ended up wandering around nearly a half an hour later with his bag of groceries down some street that looked a hell of a lot like his but wasn’t quite it. He was too proud to ask for directions—hell no he wasn’t going to do that—but he didn’t want to spend the rest of the night wandering around the creepy old streets, either. That was seriously the last time he was taking a different way back to his apartment.
“You wanna hear a song?” At first he didn’t realize the old lady was talking to him. She was wrinkled and baggy, dressed in a faded shirt and clutching what Joe thought was a saxophone. Not exactly glamorous. He sighed.
Joe didn’t want to hear a song. He wanted to find his apartment, but something in him couldn’t say it. Instead he nodded. He knew the woman was looking for tips for her and the other two musicians who were seated on buckets on the corner with her. He’d tip them. Maybe after their song, they’d tell him how to get back to his damn place. He’d never find it if he didn’t let go of his pride.
The woman sat with her saxophone. One man had a trombone and the other a muted trumpet. When they started playing, Joe was shocked. They were… amazing. He hadn’t expected anything out of a ragtag little group of people dressed in old clothes on the side of the road, but the saxophone licked clean and quick out into the night air, the trombone growled low enough that Joe felt it in his belly, and the trumpet that took the lead melody played Summertime slow and sad until the hairs on the back of Joe’s neck stood up.
He stood quietly until the song was over and then reached into his wallet and took out a twenty to drop into the open case on the street. He got directions to his building from the woman and walked back, thinking. Something about those few moments made the city he couldn’t stand come to life in a different way. He’d felt the history in the battered notes bouncing off old crumbling walls. He’d felt it all the way to his core. The feeling was fading, but at least for a second there, Joe had gotten it.
And he wished more than anything that he hadn’t.
Chapter Four
On Tuesdays Andre covered the lunch shift with Gerard. That way, Remy could sleep in and get ready for the influx that usually came at dinner after they’d been closed two nights in a row. That was the idea, anyway, only Remy was so used to being up and out of the house before anyone else that as soon as he heard his family moving around, he was wide-awake.
He wouldn’t get back to sleep, that much was obvious, so Remy rolled out of bed, tugged on pajama pants and a loose T-shirt, and padded down to the kitchen to start breakfast.
Estelle was awake already, of course, wandering around the garden and checking on his grandfather’s flowers with a chipped china cup of Earl Gray. He let her be. She was peaceful like that; there was no point in disturbing her. Instead he pulled a large skillet from the drawer and set it on the stove, then started breaking eggs into a large bowl.
The heavy tread of teenage footsteps announced Grace’s arrival, and she stopped short when she saw Remy working at the counter. She was all dressed for school, hair neat, uniform pressed. She barely looked like the ragtag tomboy he knew on the weekends.
At St Claire’s, all the girls wore white shirts with navy blue blazers and skirts. There were rules on how the girls were allowed to wear their hair, and makeup had to be kept to a minimum. Grace usually braided her dark hair down her back or wore it in a ponytail, and if she’d discovered makeup yet other than a little bit of lip gloss, Remy didn’t know about it. She was fresh-faced and lovely.
“Morning,” he said with a smile.
Grace grunted, then moved to the cupboard where they kept the cereals.
“I thought I’d make us breakfast this morning,” he said as she poked through the brightly colored boxes until she gr
abbed one and stuck her hand in it.
“Eggs make you fat.”
“Jesus, kid, like you need to care.” Grace was built like a kid still—a little chubby, long-legged, and growing out of her uniforms at record speed. “You know that’s, like, the opposite of true, by the way. If you want to know what’ll really make you gain weight, you have it—a handful of carbs and sugar is about the worst thing you can eat in the morning. Eggs are a good source of protein, and you need fat for long-term energy. I can make you an omelet if you like?”
Grace paused. Nodded. “Okay. Thanks.”
“Okay.”
He had every intention of frying bacon to go with his own breakfast but decided to leave that out for his sister since he was probably lucky enough to get her to eat eggs. There was a bowl of leftover veggies from dinner the previous night: bell peppers, onions, mushrooms, eggplant, and zucchini, which would work just fine.
“You want cheese in this thing?” he asked.
“Um….”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
“Just a little bit,” she said.
“No problem.”
Remy was sure there were problems, though he still wasn’t sure what they were or how deep they ran. Teenage girls were not his specialty. Remy had been fifteen when Grace was born, and even though big age gaps were common in a huge multigenerational family like his, trying to figure out his youngest sister was a constant source of bafflement.
He added the vegetables and a handful of cheddar to the eggs and quickly flipped the omelet in half, then left it to sizzle.
“Is Grams okay?”
Remy looked out the big kitchen window, where his grandmother was still wandering in her nightgown.
“Sure, kid. She’s just doing her thing.”
“Her thing is weird.”
“Just because you don’t understand another person’s way of looking at the world, doesn’t mean they’re wrong. Just different.”
Grace didn’t say anything and continued to watch their grandmother poking about in the roses.
Remy slid the omelet onto a plate and ground some black pepper on top, then set it spinning over the island counter to his sister, who stopped it by sticking her fork in the top. She shot Remy a rare grin.
“Do you want me to walk with you to school this morning?” Remy asked as he cracked two more eggs into the pan, added butter, salt, and pepper, and stuck his bacon under the grill with a bagel to toast.
“You picked me up yesterday,” Grace said, sounding suspicious.
“Yeah? So?”
She gave him a look that made Remy think of a bug being scrutinized by an inquisitive child. “I don’t get you, either.”
“I read somewhere that your brain goes through this stage of development when you’re in your early twenties,” Remy said conversationally as he scrambled his eggs. “Adults literally see the world differently than teenagers.”
“I don’t know what to do with that information.” She gave him a look like she couldn’t care less. Remy wasn’t fooled. He laughed and assembled his breakfast, glancing out the window to check on his grandmother. She seemed peaceful, so he didn’t disturb her. She’d been in her own world since he’d come downstairs. It wasn’t anything out of the ordinary.
“I need to go down to the market this morning. Make some wholesale orders. Your school is right on the way, so….”
“Why do you walk everywhere? I swear we need a driver.”
“It’s convenient?” he countered, sitting down and digging in to his breakfast. “And we don’t need a driver. That’s ridiculous.”
“Okay,” Grace said after a moment.
Remy frowned. “Okay, it’s convenient; okay, drivers are ridiculous; or okay, I should walk with you to school?”
“Okay,” she repeated with a grin, then hopped down from her stool and headed back upstairs.
She’d eaten at least half of her breakfast, which Remy considered a win, and he finished what she’d left after he’d polished off his own. He didn’t want to make Grace late, so he ran upstairs to change into khaki shorts, a thin button-down, and some flip-flops, then rolled the sleeves to his elbows and tied his hair back from his face in a messy knot.
Grace was waiting for him by the door, her bag at her feet, shoulders hunched, thumbs moving over the screen of her phone at an astonishing speed.
“Ready?” Remy asked and earned himself a scowl.
“I was waiting for you.”
“Then let’s get going.”
He shouldered her bag and opened the door, then let her pass through it first.
The morning was balmy, the simmering air promising a blast of warmth later in the day. Grace was quiet, and Remy tried to respect that, knowing that prodding her into speaking to him wasn’t always the best course of action.
When they passed the house where his old English teacher lived, Remy used it as an opportunity to ask Grace about her lit homework. He was sure his youngest sibling didn’t really hate him or hold even a fraction of the disdain she pretended to have. There were times when she was a reasonable human being, or even an amazing one. And other times when she was a teenage girl.
He left her at the school gates with a kiss on the head, something Grace hated, but he did it anyway because he loved her. “See you later!” he called cheerfully as Grace jogged up the steps. She didn’t even acknowledge him, and Remy found himself bemused by her once again. Her moods shifted like the wind these days.
From St. Claire’s it was only a short journey down to the market. He picked his way through one of the quieter side streets and stared up at his surroundings even though he knew them as well as his own house. Although he’d traveled some in his thirty years, Remy had always gravitated back to his corner of New Orleans, the French Quarter, as home. There was something to be said for familiarity, for the culture and heritage he grew up with. It inspired him. Made him want to make his mark on it.
* * *
Most of the vendors at the farmers’ market had been doing business with Lumiere since before Remy could remember—meat, fruit, and vegetables were always ordered fresh and local, picked out by Remy himself every week just like his father and grandfather before him. If they ever ran out, which was rare, but not unheard of, Remy more often than not sent Andre or Gerard to one of his local connections to pick up extras. He loved the farmers’ market as much as he loved the fish. Cart after cart of fruits and vegetables crowded into narrow rows, shining, organic, and fresh—none of that tasteless shit that was picked underripe and sprayed with chemicals to make it last longer. Remy didn’t want any of that in his body, and he sure as hell didn’t want it in his restaurant.
He loved browsing the artisan stalls too. Cured meats, unique cheeses, local honey of all flavors, chocolates, baked goods. The market was heaven for someone like him. Some days he barely wanted to leave.
Miss Léonie was his first stop, the laid-back Creole woman who had worked this particular vegetable stand since she was a teenager. His father had always ordered from Miss Léonie, and his grandfather had ordered from her father. It was tradition, and, more than that, she was the best.
“Mornin’, Miss Léonie,” Remy drawled, waiting for her to look up from her crossword puzzle in the newspaper and notice him.
“Remy!” she exclaimed, as if it wasn’t Tuesday and they didn’t do this every week on his morning off from Lumiere. She came out from behind the counter and pressed her hands to the sides of his neck, kissing him firmly on each cheek.
He watched her shuffle back to the tall stool and let her clamber up onto it without offering assistance. Remy knew the offer, not the lack of it, would be the thing to cause proud Léonie offense. As always, she wore dark slacks with a functional shirt and her striped red-and-white apron tied over the front. Her hair was pulled back from her face and elaborately braided into a bun at the nape, and gold hoops shone at her ears. Remy knew when Miss Léonie grinned, a matching gold tooth would glint back at him.
/> She was small, befitting of her eighty or so years on the planet, and surprisingly strong and agile. She had help in the form of grandchildren, who came along in the morning to get the stall set up, then torn down and put away at the end of the day. For the rest of the time, though, she was on her own.
“What are you cooking this week, then, pretty Remy?” she asked.
Remy couldn’t help but smile. Another tradition—Miss Léonie wasn’t much of a cook and hadn’t ever, in Remy’s knowledge, visited Lumiere. But she always insisted on knowing what he was cooking, what the menus would be, and gave firm advice on how he should prepare his food in the most suitable way, to her taste of course. He ran her through his ideas for the week’s specials: slow-cooked collard greens, a roast duck dish, spicy shrimp with jalapeño cornbread. Remy knew what ingredients he’d need for each of his dishes, but he let Miss Léonie make her recommendations, out of respect, and took her advice for quantities of each.
She made her notes in scratchy handwriting in a battered notebook that held all her orders, confirmed prices and a delivery time, then let Remy be on his way. He didn’t mind spending the time with the old lady. She was part of the beating heart of this market, part of the reason he loved it so much.
Tony, at his favorite butchers stall, took less time to deal with. Remy handed him a list, Tony appraised it with a grunt, gave him a price and a delivery time, and they were done.
Since he was in the area, Remy took a slight detour after the market and stopped into a bakery he’d been going to for years to pick up pastries. The place was part of the landscape, just like the farmers’ market and Lumiere. It had been around longer than he, and if vultures like Joe didn’t come in and pick it apart like a dying animal, it’d probably still be there long after Remy was gone.
He got a huge order of beignets—best in the city, screw the touristy places—then picked up the pace to get home in time to enjoy them with his mother and grandmother and take a short nap before he was needed in the kitchen to get ready for dinner. The heat was starting to thicken, and Remy tipped his head toward the sun as he walked, enjoying the warmth on his face.
