by Liz Talley
Eden followed Marla through the tables where couples and friends sat drinking and laughing. The cozy intimacy made her miss Jess and Rosemary. Her fingers itched to pull out her cell phone and snap pics for Snapchat. But she didn’t have time because before she could even reach for her cell phone, Marla parked her on a red velvet barstool nestled into a corner close to the stage.
“Enjoy the show. Gotta get back. We’re full tonight,” Marla said, holding up a finger to catch the attention of a burly man with a dark beard who wore a vest and bow tie. When he glanced her way, Marla pointed to Eden.
Then Marla was gone.
The bar was crowded with businessmen, too-pretty women, artsy bohemian types, and one man who looked like a 1920s gangster, hat and all. They all looked as if they belonged.
One of these things is not like the others.
Eden should have worn something nicer. Something not so biker bar. She felt like a wart on the ass of an upscale lingerie model.
“What can I get you?” the man she presumed to be Mike asked. He didn’t smile, but he didn’t look unfriendly. “On the house.”
“Uh, thank you. I’ll just have . . .” She should have water. She wasn’t much of a drinker, but her nerves felt shredded and the whole self-conscious, uncomfortable-in-her-skin feeling had to go. She needed to relax. “ . . . a white zinfandel.”
Mike would make a face. She knew that because it was such lightweight drink. Unsophisticated. Country as a turnip. But white zin was what she drank on the back patio of Rosemary’s carriage house, lazy fireflies dotting the night as the girls talked about dreams, hard workdays, and the fact Ginger Hannigan wore clothes more geared to a twenty-year-old than a seventy-five-year-old librarian.
But Mike didn’t make a face. He merely turned, grabbed a sparkling glass, and filled it with the sweet pink stuff. Glancing at her, he paused a moment. And then he added two ice cubes.
Laughter burbled up in Eden. “Yeah, I’m that girl.”
Finally a smile cracked his face. “I’ve known lots of those girls. Let me know if you need anything else.”
Eden took a sip and willed herself to let go of the angst. The walk down Bourbon and the whole inappropriate-dress thing had twisted her tight as a champagne cork. Sucking a deep breath through her nose, she shrugged out of her jacket. Try to look relaxed, and for God’s sake don’t make eye contact with any guys. No more offers of cunnilingus.
Just as she spun on her stool toward the stage to check out the setup again, a beautiful voice rang out, a plaintive and pure tenor.
The room quieted with an anticipatory hush as everyone’s heads swiveled toward the stage.
The curtain rustled as a long leg the color of creamy café au lait and clad in a towering black stiletto teasingly emerged. A smattering of excited applause erupted as six women in sexy military uniforms trotted onto the stage. The distinctive sound of tap shoes clacked a merry rhythm. But all eyes were on that leg, a leg now being caressed by a very large, white-gloved hand. Opera gloves with a diamond bracelet winking at the wrist.
“It’s that time, darlings. Sista Shayla time,” someone crowed into the microphone.
This time the applause was rousing.
Eden took a sip of her wine as the curtain inched backward. The background dancers stood like mannequins, right feet pointed, hands on hips.
Silver flashed as the curtain jerked fully open to reveal a large woman—or rather man—frozen in a vogue. His gloved hand reached out as if balancing a platter, chin was up, mouth in a moue. Golden hair spilled across bared caramel shoulders, and a sparkling Andrews Sisters-style cap perched jauntily atop the smooth coif. A matching sequined gown hugged every inch of an hourglass figure.
The crowd went nuts as the band struck up.
“‘Don’t Sit under the Apple Tree’?” Eden whispered to herself as the dancers started a boogie-woogie dance perfectly in sync. Finally, Shayla brought the microphone up and with a quick snap of her head, the show was on.
And Shayla was good. Perfectly choreographed and with a voice smooth as satin, the big drag queen made a 1940s classic sound . . . dirty.
When the song ended, the place went crazy.
Eden couldn’t help laughing and clapping along herself. And thankfully, Shayla wasn’t done. Another song, this one modern, followed. The ensemble sang, pranced, and seemed as much a part of the production as the handsome piano player whom Shayla seemed to key on a lot. The horn section swayed along and never missed a note.
“Impressive enough for you?” someone asked at her shoulder.
Eden turned to find a tiny woman wearing a corset, tutu, and combat boots. Small Benjamin Franklin glasses perched on her nose, and it was obvious she was of Asian descent. “Uh, yes. It was marvelous.”
“I’m Frenchie Pi. And no worries, this is a costume. I’m doing an Ace Ventura thing later.”
Eden held out her hand and tried not to laugh. Ace Ventura? There were surprises at every turn at Gatsby’s. “I’m Eden, and I think I’m in love with this place.”
Frenchie nodded. “Yeah, it does that.”
“It’s so different than I imagined.”
Frenchie gave the man wearing the gangster garb a flat look. He immediately rose and pushed his stool toward her. “Butch.”
The man growled, grabbed his drink, and walked off.
“He’s a grump. Shoulda got his fat ass up as soon as he saw me. Bustin’ my chops about hiring a new girl, but he don’t get up and let me do business,” she said, hopping atop the stool.
Ooookay, so Frenchie really didn’t bullshit. And she was sort of rude. And offensive. And ironically cute as a button. Eden tried not to let her thoughts show, but evidently Frenchie could see the censure in her face.
She waved a hand. “Don’t worry. That’s Butch. He’s usually not so pleasant,” Frenchie said with a smirk. Humor twinkled in her eyes before they shuttered. She tapped a blood-red fingernail on the ivory marble top, and seconds later, Mike set a highball glass half-filled with what looked to be whiskey in front of Frenchie.
Lifting her glass, she waited. Eden grabbed her wineglass and winced as Frenchie clinked hers against it.
“What the hell are you drinking?” she asked before tossing back half the contents of her glass.
“Uh, wine,” Eden said.
“Pink wine?”
Eden lifted her chin. “Yeah. Pink wine.”
Frenchie shrugged and leveled almond eyes the exact color of brown shoe polish at her. “Be here at ten tomorrow morning. Two other girls are auditioning. Two other girls who didn’t need to come interview me.”
“I’m not interviewing you. I’m new to town. I don’t jump in without checking the depth. I’m a performer, not stupid.” So she sounded defensive. Eden didn’t care. She wasn’t letting Frenchie bulldoze her or draw conclusions about her motives. She’d learned the hard way about trying too hard to please the boss.
Frenchie narrowed her eyes, then gave a slow nod. “Fine. I’m hiring someone by the end of tomorrow. Michelle’s leaving next week—moving to Nashville to sing country music. But she’ll be back. They always come back.”
Doubt gnawed inside Eden, but she chased it off. If she didn’t roll the dice, she couldn’t win big. Or crap out. “I’ll be here. Anything I need to bring with me?”
“An impressive audition.” Frenchie Pi slid off the stool and jerked her head toward Mike. “Have another drink.”
Then Frenchie left.
Eden eyed the half-empty wineglass. She didn’t want another drink. What she wanted was to know was how much she’d get paid or if being a cocktail waitress was more lucrative. The ones milling around in smart little suits carrying old-fashioned cigarette-box serving trays looked plenty busy, and the crowd looked happy enough to tip big. Perhaps Eden would rather flirt her way into fall tuition than deal with Frenchie Pi.
“Another?” Mike asked.
“No. Thank you for this one though.” Eden grabbed her jacket and slid off th
e stool. Pulling out a precious five-dollar bill, she jammed it into the overflowing tip jar.
“Maybe I’ll be seeing you around.”
“Maybe you will,” she said, shrugging into her jacket. The crowd hadn’t thinned in the least, and as she gave Mike a wave goodbye, the curtains slid open and a voluptuous redhead slunk onto stage. Whistles and a smattering of applause followed.
Eden paused on the edge of the room and watched the redhead’s sultry version of “My Funny Valentine.” Red needed voice lessons, but the way she filled out her skintight, barely there dress seemed to make up for being off-pitch. Sista Shayla was a much better singer.
And if Eden wanted to give her best effort, she needed some sleep and some early morning run-throughs of “Le Jazz Hot” from Victor Victoria. She’d used it to land the Sally Bowles role in Cabaret, the last role she’d played at the local Jackson theatre. So much change over the past two weeks had led to little sleep, and worry played dodgeball with her attempts to count sheep. But if she could land a job at Gatsby’s in the evenings and take care of Sophie in the afternoons, she’d be in high cotton. Tuition money and a new life would be right around the corner.
Thoughts of Sophie led to thoughts of Nick.
Nick Zeringue.
God, how she couldn’t keep her mind off him which was so uncharacteristic. Eden wasn’t the sort to moon over a guy, but some strange fascination with the dynamic man had embedded itself in her brain. Maybe it was the fact she worked in his house. She caught whiffs of his cologne and folded a pair of his silky boxer briefs when she’d folded a load of Sophie’s clothes. Or maybe it was the way he treated her. He didn’t treat her like Gary—one moment inappropriate, the next nagging about her not filling out reports correctly. Gary treated her like she was a nobody. But Nick treated her respectfully. Thoughtfully. And he hadn’t held the whole mop-bucket incident against her. In fact, he liked to crack jokes about her slipping in puddles. Like it was an inside joke.
And he’d asked her to stay for dinner.
Oh, how she’d wanted to. For a moment when he’d called out as he came through the door, her mind had gone there—that crazy, ridiculous place where she waited for someone who loved her, warm and safe in the four-thousand-square-foot home with the travertine floors and the marbled columns.
But that was nuts. N-U-T-S.
Nick Zeringue was her boss. And he saw her as she was—a quiet, obedient employee who took care of his daughter. Nothing more.
With that thought, Eden slipped toward the foyer and a date with a Tylenol PM.
Montana liked to flip her hair and talk about how much she loved craft beer and sports. That she knew next to nothing about sports didn’t seem to dissuade her. His blind date also talked about self-help books, film noir, and giving back to her community. Volunteering at the Irish Channel Girls Club had made her a better person. She was whole now. And she longed to buy a mini-dachshund she could use as a therapy dog.
And Nick was bored out of his mind . . . and doubtful a little weenie dog would be a good dog for touchy-feely stuff. His aunt’s mini-dachshund Odie had been a grump with sharp teeth.
And he wasn’t bored because Montana supported volunteerism, but because she never shut up about topics she deemed important. And she said “You know?” a lot.
“I just love watching puppies being born, you know? There’s something so beautiful about new life awakening, you know? That’s why I’m applying to vet school. I’ve spent five years doing the vet-tech thing, and I know I can make better contributions as an actual veterinarian, you know? I’ve finally grabbed hold of my dream.”
Nick sipped his gin and tonic. “That’s cool.”
“I’m teaching a tightrope class at Sleek Physique on Sunday afternoon. You want to come? It’s total core and balance work, you know?” She stirred her Skinnygirl vodka drink with the cocktail straw and looked plaintively across the table at him. Her enthusiasm, sleek body, and low-calorie drink choice screamed something he couldn’t put his finger on. Maybe it was that she tried too hard. Either way, he felt tired just talking to her.
“You’re involved in a lot of things,” he said, looking desperately for the waiter so he could request the check.
“I believe an involved life is a complete life. What am I going to do? Lie around? Life doesn’t happen when you’re Netflixing on the couch, you know? I do a coed soccer team too. Do you play?” She smiled like the date was going swimmingly. Maybe it was for her. But Nick liked crashing on the couch and watching House of Cards. With a bowl of ice cream.
“Not since high school. I run. Only for exercise. I find nothing pleasurable about it anymore.”
“Really? I love to go for a run. I do five every morning. Except on the weekends. I relax with yoga.” She waved at someone and the waiter appeared at his elbow. Thank God.
Montana tapped her glass. “I’ll have another. And so will Nick.” She arched her eyebrow in question, her teeth bright against lipstick the color of a good cabernet.
“Uh, act—”
“Of course,” the waiter said, disappearing like a fart in the wind. Nick snapped his mouth closed. How in all that was holy had his sister thought Montana was perfect for him? She was likely getting him back for stealing the LSU tickets at the annual family Dirty Santa Christmas party. Caro held grudges and was patient . . . a deadly combination.
“Excuse me for a moment,” Nick said, pulling out his phone and waggling it. “Gotta check on this.”
He pushed back from the table, slightly shamed he’d resorted to lying in order to take a break from Montana. But God help him, he needed respite.
“Sure,” Montana said, smiling adorably. “I saw a sorority sister at the bar. I’m going to say hello. We’re on the gala committee together, you know?”
“I didn’t,” he said, pushing past a group of businessmen entering the posh uptown bar right off St. Charles. He emerged onto the wide porch which, thanks to the earlier rain, was damp, cool, and empty. He sucked in a deep breath and wondered why in the hell he’d agreed to go on a blind date.
A blind date with someone who thought yoga was perfect for a relaxing weekend.
Maybe a lot of people thought yoga was relaxing on the weekend. He’d rather have pancakes himself. And read the New York Times from cover to cover. Not because he was pretentious but because he actually liked lounging in his pj’s pants doing nothing for a good hour. At least he had enjoyed that up until his life had taken a spill. But Eden had solved some of that.
Quiet, pretty Eden with her whisper smile and calming hands had helped mop up the mess of his life.
His mind flashed to her sitting in the hall of All Souls, wet and apologetic. Even as she’d politely introduced herself while sitting in dirty mop water, she’d been like the breath he’d just taken—refreshing. Even with her pants wet and heat flooding her cheeks, she’d not seemed fazed by the whole deal, giving him a glimpse into how she would handle Sophie knocking over a bowl of soup or shattering one of those stupid figurines his mother kept buying. And Eden had proven her worth over the past few weeks. His life felt much easier.
If only he didn’t have that feeling when he was with her—the itchy yearning one that a man really shouldn’t have for his daughter’s nanny. After all, Eden wasn’t even his type. She was too quiet, too perceptive, those pretty eyes saying so much more than words. At times it came across as submissive, as if she might bob a curtsy or something. But then her eyes would flash, and he knew fire smoldered beneath the smooth calm.
No lying to himself—he was drawn to her. Her softness. Her stillness. Her vulnerability. And the fact she didn’t talk about herself twenty-four seven. Instead of prattling, Eden listened, her mouth curving as he humorously reflected on his day or made inane observations about his nosy neighbor Edith Schwegman.
Had he imagined a flicker of something in her eyes when he’d told her he had a date?
Nah. Couldn’t be.
Or maybe—
“Nick?”
Montana touched his shoulder. “You done with your call? The waiter brought our drinks, and I’m dying to tell you about my trip to Jackson Hole. I have pictures.” She waved her phone and smiled with . . . yeah, enthusiasm.
A woman like Montana would wear him out.
“Sure. One more drink, then I need to get home to my daughter.”
Montana looked puzzled. “You have a kid?”
He gave an inside fist pump. Kids were deal breakers. Sophie was his ticket out of an awkward blowoff. “Yeah, Sophie’s special needs. She has cerebral palsy.”
“Wow, that’s . . . Well, I love kids,” Montana said, blinding him with her hundred-watt smile.
Of course she did.
Eden tugged on her scuffed tap shoes and tied a sad satin bow. They were her old tap shoes and she needed to replace one of the metal plates that kept detaching, but they would do for practice.
Frenchie Pi clapped her hands. “Places. We’re running through the Ziegfeld Follies spoof. Once it’s perfect, we’ll have Derrick work on the Aretha Franklin number. Did everyone get the video I uploaded? I expect you to know your steps.”
Eden had gotten the ensemble job. She’d never done “Le Jazz Hot” better at an audition. Desperation did that sort of thing to people. And the pay turned out to be good—$13.50 an hour for six hours work plus split tips with the band. The tips were fairly good even if they were divvied between sixteen people, though Jasmine, a slender African-American with a pierced nose, swore Freddy the trumpeter was pocketing some on the side. All in all, if Eden was thrifty, she’d make enough between her two part-time jobs to cover her expenses and save the money she’d need for tuition next fall. Not to mention, her counselor had given her some hints about financial aid and art grants that might help her cover some fees.
She wasn’t giving up on getting her degree, just exploring a different path. And if that path gave her street cred or padded her résumé with stage experience, all the better.
Eden stood and took her place—right side on the end. That’s what being a shrimp got you—bookend.
