by Anna Martin
“This looks incredible,” Joe murmured, leaning in so Remy could hear him.
“Help yourself,” Sophie said as she slid into the chair next to Joe. He was secretly relieved—Sal was giving him the evil eye from the other end of the table.
People passed dishes from one side of the table to the other, sharing and splitting things between them, putting food on each other’s plates to save time. Between Remy and Sophie, Joe got clucked at for not taking enough, then more slaw made its way onto his plate, alongside another croissant.
“No, really, this is great,” he said, laughing and putting his hands up as Sophie tried to make him take another piece of chicken. “I’m good.”
“Okay, I know when to back off,” she said. “So, how are you finding New Orleans, then, Mr. Fitzgerald?”
“It’s Joe. Please. I… it’s hotter here than I’m used to,” he admitted.
“But you’re from California. Isn’t it hot there?”
“It’s a different kind of heat. Not humid at all. I live a few blocks away from the ocean too, so I’m used to that breeze coming in off the Pacific. Here it’s different.”
“I went to California once,” Estelle said from the other side of the table. She was seated next to Grace, who had taken over Sal’s job of sending evil glares in Joe’s direction. “Never made it to Los Angeles, though.”
“When did you go, Grams?” Andre asked.
“Oh, let me think. I believe it was 1952. Though I might be mistaken. It was a while ago now.”
Andre laughed and patted her arm, then returned his attention to his chicken.
“Can you pass the green beans, Grace?” Sal asked. He held out his hand.
Grace rolled her eyes but passed him the beans without comment. If Joe had thought everyone would quiet down once they started eating, he’d have been wrong. They talked over the sound of forks and knives and the quiet music in the background. Everyone asked questions at once and answered them in different directions. Andre teased Grace, stared at Magnolia, and laughed like a donkey. Tom giggled at his wife and sang along with Tony Bennett. Estelle was the quietest one. She mostly watched her family with a soft smile on her face while she picked at her meal. Joe liked her. He liked her a lot.
“So, um, Joe. I hear you’re expanding Pineapple Joe’s into New Orleans,” Sal said when there was a quiet moment.
Joe wanted to die. Strangle Sal and then die. “Um. Yes, we are.”
“He wants our restaurant,” Grace grumbled, as though she, Sal, and everyone at the table didn’t already know exactly what Joe wanted. She glared at Joe.
“Well, that’s not going to happen,” Andre drawled.
“I actually think it would be good,” Sal said.
“The hell it would,” Remy growled. “We’re not selling part of our family’s history so some tourists with fanny packs can drink for half price on bikini-top day.”
Oh, wow. So Remy had looked them up. Joe actually was a little surprised he’d done some research before rejecting them out of hand. But still. Conversation was getting progressively more hostile.
Can this please end? Now? Joe was used to boardrooms and uncomfortable meetings. He sure as hell wasn’t used to being at a family’s house for dinner without his business armor and his briefcase. He wanted the night to be over, and fast.
“Remy, you’ve been driving that place into the ground for years. I’m surprised it’s not condemned by this point.”
“How the hell would you know, dickhead? You haven’t been in there since Andre and I took over.”
“You’re right. And nobody else without a death wish should.”
“Just because you and your asshole yuppie friends don’t know what food’s supposed to taste like, doesn’t mean—”
“I know how a business is supposed to be run, and your books are a mess.”
Joe wanted to leap across the table and strangle Sal. All of the setup they’d been doing the past few days was gushing right down the drain with every word Sal said, every hostile reply Remy gave him.
“When did you see my books?” Remy was nearly shouting by that time. He shot an accusatory look at Tom.
“If I didn’t look at them every quarter, you’d have been charged with tax fraud by now. You don’t know how to run a damn company. Maybe you should sell the building to people who do.”
“It’s a restaurant, not a corporation.”
“You’re so clueless,” Sal said. They were both nearly out of their seats at that point. Joe wanted to slide out of his own chair and make his way to the nearest exit. Too bad that would be nearly impossible.
Estelle stood and went to the stereo that was playing in the corner. She turned the volume up and started twirling to Bing Crosby.
Are these people fucking insane? Joe was halfway between laughing and having his own version of a meltdown. He doubted it would include dancing to old music, but it might involve sprinting out of that nuthouse and never coming back.
Remy, Andre, and Sal kept arguing, Estelle danced, Grace glared, and Tom and Sophie sat quietly at the end of the table, eating their dinner. Joe felt as though he’d entered some sort of Twilight Zone.
“Um, where is your restroom?” he asked Sophie.
She pointed toward an open doorway, and Joe slipped out of the room and into the nearest quiet space so he could breathe.
* * *
It had calmed down a little by the time he returned. Estelle was still twirling around the kitchen, but the shouting had stopped. Instead the conversation had returned to its usual level of dull roar.
“Excuse us, please,” Remy said and grabbed Joe’s hand. He dragged him out of his chair and out of the room without waiting for a response.
Joe felt a strange combination of embarrassment and relief as they wound through the house, quiet since all the family was gathered in one place. It was a beautiful old house, a perfect example of Louisiana architecture. Joe had been learning what that meant since he’d arrived here.
Remy was still holding Joe’s hand as he made his way up one set of stairs, then another, until they were in the attic of the house, and Remy shut the door behind them.
“Is this your room?” Joe wondered aloud.
“Yeah.”
It wasn’t what he’d expected. Not that he’d given a lot of thought to Remy’s room, not after learning that he still lived with his family. The attic was light and spacious, the floorboards left bare apart from a beautiful rug. There was a wardrobe in one corner instead of a closet, Joe guessed because of the shape of the ceiling and the fact that it was clearly a converted space. Remy’s dresser matched the wardrobe, and a few clothes spilled out of one of the drawers.
“I’m not sure what I just experienced,” Joe said slowly as Remy crossed to a window and threw it open.
“A traditional Babineaux Sunday dinner?”
“Is it always like that?”
Remy cocked his head to the side. “No. Not always. Sometimes it’s louder.”
* * *
Remy leaned against his desk and watched Joe scrutinize his room, oddly amused. He’d brought boyfriends over for dinner before. His family was more than okay with that—had gotten used to the idea when Remy was still in high school. Joe wasn’t a boyfriend, though, not even a date.
He was someone Remy hated. Right?
He’d come to dinner wearing nice pants and a shirt rolled up to the elbows and had shaved close and combed his hair. Remy hadn’t even washed his hair, let alone combed it. Joe had made an effort.
He wasn’t someone Remy hated, even though Remy was trying really hard to. He still hated everything Joe stood for. But he didn’t hate Joe. Not anymore.
Remy pushed away from the desk and walked over to where Joe was standing, shuffling his feet, looking generally uncomfortable.
“What are you doing?” Joe asked as Remy reached up and put his hands on Joe’s cheeks.
“Trying something. Shh.”
They’d had sex—more than
once—and it was good. Sex was something they could do. And they’d kissed too, that was part of sex, but Remy had a feeling they hadn’t really spent enough time exploring that part of whatever this was.
So he leaned in and brushed his lips over Joe’s, very softly, very carefully.
He felt Joe’s hands wrap around his waist, and Remy made sure to keep his hips back—this wasn’t about sex.
Their lips moves slowly together, a little give, a little take, and Remy flicked his tongue so it got in on the act too. These kisses were slow and safe, exploring, wondering what exactly was between them.
“That was nice,” Joe murmured when Remy pulled away.
“Mm. I thought so too.”
Joe paused for a moment, then asked, “What now?”
“Take your shoes off.”
“Huh?”
Remy grinned. “Take your shoes off. We can watch some TV.”
He crossed to the set on the wall and turned it on, grabbed the remote, then went back to the bed and leapt onto it. Joe chuckled and sat down, pulled his shoes off, then swung his legs up.
“Won’t your family wonder what we’re doing?” he asked.
“I expect they’ll think we’re having sex,” Remy said easily.
“Oh God,” Joe groaned.
“What?”
“I don’t want to think about your grandmother thinking about me having sex.”
Remy shrugged. “It’s an old house. Noise carries. People have sex. So what?”
Joe shook his head. “You’re far too laid-back.”
“No, I’m exactly laid-back enough. Do you want to not watch this for a couple hours?”
It was some Discovery Channel thing Joe hadn’t ever seen before. He doubted he’d be actually seeing it any time soon. “Uh, sure?”
“Great,” Remy said and with a predatory grin, rolled over and pinned Joe to the bed.
Joe had no intention of having sex, not in Remy’s bed in his house with his family all around, but there was no reason, none at all, why they couldn’t make out like teenagers for the next few hours.
* * *
The next day in the kitchen, Remy took the shit Andre was throwing at him for a full hour and a half before he snapped.
“Right,” he said, throwing down the whisk he’d been using to whip cream. “Either we have this out right now or I’ll take you out back and we can throw punches at each other like we’re kids again.”
They were doing all of the dessert prep for the next couple of days, catching up on things that would store well in the fridge. It was usually a task Remy liked, a more relaxed atmosphere to cook in than when the restaurant was open. But Andre still had a bug up his ass about Joe and was making Remy’s life hell about Sunday dinner.
“Think you can fight me?” Andre crowed. “Bring it.”
“You don’t like Joe. I get it,” Remy snapped, balling his hands on his hips. He was bigger than Andre, taller by a few inches and at least twenty pounds heavier. He could take Andre in a fight, he was sure of it. However, throwing punches would likely incur their mother’s wrath, and he’d like to avoid that if at all possible. “You know what? I don’t like parts of Joe all that much, either.”
“You like some parts just fine,” Andre said. His eyes narrowed.
“Oh my God, you’re such a child. Yes, I’m having sex with him. Yes, I’ve sucked his dick. Can we please stop talking about it?” Remy was glad no one else was around that morning. The last thing he needed was Gerard or Magnolia or, heaven forbid, Stella walking in on him talking about sucking dick.
“I’m not the one sucking off the guy who’s trying to destroy our livelihood.”
“I’m the one trying to broker us a deal,” Remy hissed.
“By prostituting yourself?” Andre said incredulously. “Oh, come off it, Remy. Not even you’re that stupid.”
“I am not prostituting myself. I’m playing the long game, Andre. We are running out of options right now, and I need him to understand what we are. I need him to look at Lumiere and see a family, not a pawn he can just wipe aside to suit his purposes.”
Andre shook his head and pulled off the white apron protecting his shirt. They hadn’t changed into chef whites yet. They both preferred to do the prep work in old T-shirts. “I don’t see why you need to sleep with the guy, though,” he said. Remy watched as Andre crossed to the fridge where they kept drinks for the kitchen staff and cracked open a can of root beer. “Want one?”
“Sure,” Remy said with a sigh. He pulled his own apron off and took the can Andre offered him. “Is this a sex thing that’s pissing you off, or a gay thing, or a Joe Fitzgerald thing? Really, Andre.”
Andre cocked his head to one side. “A bit of all those things. Well not the gay part. You know I don't care about that.”
“So am I not allowed to enjoy sex? I know your self-imposed celibacy—”
“Hold up,” Andre said. “This isn’t about me.”
“Well, maybe if you were getting some of your own, you wouldn’t be so worried about who I'm taking to bed,” Remy said.
“Maybe I’m playing a long game too. Did that ever occur to you?”
Remy laughed. “Oh, Dre. If you’re playing a long game, it’s the longest one in history. Seriously. When are you going to get off your ass and talk to her?”
“When the time is right,” Andre said, more than a little defensive now. “There’s no use in rushing these things, you know.”
Despite having spent most of the morning bickering with his youngest brother, Remy felt a strange rush of affection for him and grabbed Andre around the neck to pull him into a hug.
“She likes you too. I know it.”
“She told you that?” Andre’s eyes went wide.
“She didn’t need to.”
“Well, then, let me do my thing my way.”
“And you’ll let me do my things my way?” Remy asked, neatly trapping Andre in a web of his own making.
Andre paused for a minute. “Fuck,” he said. “Yeah, all right. Fine. But you have to know what you’re getting yourself into, Remy. I’m worried about you. That man is a predator, and if he smells blood….”
“I know what I’m doing,” Remy said. “And you’ve met him a few times, now. He isn’t a cartoon villain, twirling his mustache and devising terrible plans to destroy us all. He’s just a guy doing a job. It’s my job to convince him he’s on the wrong track and give him some other options.”
“Okay. Okay.” Andre held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I’ll leave you to it, as long as you stop harassing me about Magnolia.”
“Deal,” Remy said. He had no intention of stopping harassing Andre about Magnolia, but that could start again after Joe had left, taking his offer on Lumiere with him.
A few more weeks, some more hot sex, and Remy would show Joe there were other properties in New Orleans that would work just fine for his horrible themed restaurant. Remy got laid, Lumiere would keep ticking, as it always did, and then he could get back to giving Andre hell about his love life.
A few more weeks. That was all.
Chapter Seven
“How many more times are we going to do this, man? I’m really uncomfortable meeting you without the owner,” Joe said as he scooted into a plush leather booth. If he didn’t know better, he’d think Sal was trying to romance him, the place was so dark and candlelit and ridiculously posh.
So yeah, Joe wanted to talk to the owner. The owner as in Tom. Tom who had a family and a house and two other sons. Remy had seen how different Sal was than the rest of them at Sunday dinner. It was hard for Joe to decide what about him set him aside, other than the clear disregard for the traditions everyone else held so close.
Yet instead of sitting down to a friendly meal or drink with Tom, he was back in some yuppie pretentious gastropub steakhouse with Sal, who seemed hell-bent on showing Joe that the French Quarter and Remy’s ideals weren’t really the good parts of the city.
“I’ve n
early got him,” Sal said, grinning. “Dad agrees that Lumiere is holding the family back and that both Remy and Andre could get positions at amazing restaurants if they had a reason to try.”
“You think?” It sure sounded a hell of a lot more like Sal throwing his brothers to the wolves to get what he so desperately wanted for some reason. He had that look about him—slick and sophisticated, not exactly moral, maybe a lot like Joe himself. Joe didn’t much like looking in the mirror, if he were telling the truth.
Sal snorted. “Remy’s been romanced by a few pretty highbrow places. One of them has two Michelin stars and a huge celeb clientele. Sandra Bullock goes there when she’s in town. I’ve heard Brad Pitt’s a fan too.”
Wow. He hadn’t expected that. Joe was already pretty damn impressed with Remy, but that was another level. Chef to the stars at some famous restaurant. And he chose the kitchen with the cranky AC and a dining room with, like, ten tables?
“That sounds pretty great.”
“And Andre, he’d be fine too.” Sal sighed. “Dad’s biggest sticking point is Magnolia and Stella. I keep telling him he can’t let their deadweight drag the family down forever.”
Joe felt a bubble of bile hit his throat. That was it. That’s how Sal was different. He knew Remy and Andre had other opportunities, but Magnolia didn’t, and Sal saw Magnolia and her beautiful little girl as deadweight. Dead fucking weight.
“Don’t you think that’s a little harsh?” he asked.
Sal gave him a sharp look. “Do you want to buy the building or not? Honestly, I don’t see how it’s your business how my family deals with the freeloaders.”
“It’s not.” Joe shrugged and tried not to look as sick as he felt. He’d only met Stella a few times, but her little grin and chubby fingers had charmed him. The way she’d crawl right up in his lap as though she trusted the world and couldn’t see anything wrong with it made him feel… different for once. Just like Remy made him feel different. Usually his life was just city after city, building after building, contractors who were different but somehow not, fast food and coffee and late nights. A big blur of them.
