This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © Alexandrea Weis 2013
2nd Edition WEBA Publishing March 19, 2015
Licensing Notes
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles and reviews.
Cover: Bookfabulous Designs
Editor: Maxine Bringenberg
Chapter 1
The sunrise from the third floor balcony of her New Orleans Garden District home was the most colorful Jazzmyn Livaudais had seen in a long time. Tendrils of red stretched into orange and then blended into yellow across the clear spring sky. As the great ball of red rose above the imposing oaks surrounding her home, Jazzmyn smiled and eased her body back into the old white rocker she escaped to every morning. She clutched the warm, blue mug of coffee tightly in her hands to stave off the chill in the air.
In the massive oak that rose beside the balcony, a feisty pair of squirrels darted about the dark bark of the tree. Situated in the branches, two cardinals were working feverishly on their nest. In the distance, the faint clang, clang, clang of a trolley could be heard as it headed down St. Charles Avenue. Jazzmyn sipped her coffee and felt blessed to have these captivating moments before her hectic day began.
A ball of gray fur wrapped its long tail around Jazzmyn’s bare right ankle and uttered an aggravated meow.
Jazzmyn spied the tubby, gray tabby and smiled. “Sorry, Mr. JP,” she said as she scratched behind the cat’s ears. “Didn’t know you were there, buddy.”
Mr. JP stood still for a moment and savored her affection. Then, deciding that his needs had been met, he abruptly turned away and strolled down the long balcony in search of other entertainment.
Jazzmyn watched as his gray tail slipped into the open french door that led to the third floor bedroom she used as an office. She turned her eyes back to the sunrise, and was surprised to discover that the deep colors of red had faded away and the stronger orange hues of the full sun had climbed higher over the treetops. She sighed as she peered down into her coffee.
“Time to get ready.”
Jazzmyn stood from her rocker and placed her mug down on the round, white wicker table next to her. She stretched lazily in her cream-colored silk pajamas, and glanced once more to the trees surrounding her home. Eager for a few more seconds of solitude, she stepped to the balcony railing for one last glimpse of the bright morning sky.
“Hey, up there,” a deep voice called from the ground below. “You ready yet, Jazz?”
Jazzmyn looked over the wooden balcony railing. Waving up at her from the front steps to her grand home was a man dressed in jeans and an old white T-shirt.
“You’re early,” she shouted down at him. “Where’s your truck?”
“I walked from the restaurant. Had to get there early ‘cause I’ve got this uppity bitch for a boss who insists I be early for work every day,” the man returned in an upbeat voice.
Jazzmyn frowned at him. “I am not uppity.”
“Yeah, but you’re definitely bitchy.”
“Kyle, has anyone ever told you that you’re a horse’s ass?” she yelled back at him.
Kyle stood quietly for a moment, appearing to be deep in thought, and then he shrugged. “Yeah, you did about ten hours ago. Now come on down and open the damn door.”
Jazzmyn laughed as she waved her hand at him. “I’m coming.”
She hurried toward her office balcony door that Mr. JP had disappeared into only a few minutes before. She ran through her office, with its small oak desk, metal file cabinets, and cast iron hearth, to the third floor landing.
Once on the second floor of her home, she dashed into her pale pink bedroom and grabbed a blue silk robe that was draped over an antique Napoleon chair, and ran back out the door. She raced down the wide, dark oak stairway with its twisting grapevine carved banister, and past the scattered pictures along the wall of long dead relatives, until she came to the first floor foyer. Throwing the robe over her shoulders, she reached for the massive oak and leaded glass double front doors. When she pulled the doors open, she found Kyle waiting on the wide front porch.
At six-foot-two, Kyle’s lanky physique towered over her, making Jazzmyn acutely aware of his wide chest and sinewy arms. She had always considered him good-looking, with thick, light brown hair, high cheekbones, a chiseled jaw, and brilliant blue eyes. The only thing that marred his pleasing countenance was the way his thin, pale lips were perpetually frowning at her.
“Took your time getting here,” Kyle complained as he stepped in the doorway.
“It’s a long way from the third floor,” Jazzmyn defended, sounding a little out of breath as she finished tying the belt on her robe.
As Kyle casually sauntered into the entrance foyer, he looked down at the white marble floors and up to the beaded-crystal chandelier dangling from the high ceiling. “I still don’t understand why you don’t just sell this museum, Jazz. I’m sure you could make a fortune unloading it on some rich New Orleans judge, and then you could retire to the beach like you’ve always wanted.”
Jazzmyn shut the heavy front doors. “You know I can’t do that, Kyle.” She turned her dark green eyes to him. “This house is all I have left.”
Kyle stared into her creamy, round face. “It’s just a house, Jazz. You’ve been killing yourself since Jack passed away six years ago to keep the place going. Your father would have never wanted this life for you.”
Unable to stand his intrusive gaze any longer, Jazzmyn cast her eyes to the fine marble floor. “Yeah, well, leaving me this old house and the restaurant was about the best thing my father did for me.”
Kyle placed his hand under her chin and raised her eyes to his. “Jack didn’t want you to give up your dreams. He wanted you to finish graduate school and be a psychologist, like you always talked about.”
Jazzmyn removed his hand and smirked at him. “Cancer had a funny way of curing me of that dream, Kyle. You know as well as I do that I had no choice but to quit graduate school and take care of Dad.” She shrugged. “In the end, it was for the best. I found out I liked running the restaurant.” She paused and glanced around the foyer, with its brightly painted yellow plaster walls and high ceiling. “Besides, I love this old house. I love that it has been in my family for generations, and now it is my responsibility.”
Kyle grinned at her, seemingly amused. “Your responsibility? Just because you’re the last of some old New Orleans family doesn’t mean you have to take up the mantle and keep the home fires burning, Jazz. You can leave this house.”
She turned away from him. “No, I can’t. I’m the last of the Livaudais family. I have a duty.”
“You have a mental problem.” Kyle chuckled as he followed her out of the foyer. “You’ll always be a Livaudais, but if you sell this place, you can be a rich Livaudais for a change.”
“It’s not about the money,” she said, and made her way down the hallway next to the wide stairs.
As she walked in front of him, Jazzmyn felt self-conscious. She could not help but picture Kyle eagerly taking in the sway of her slender hips beneath her clingy silk robe. Her fingers nervously reached around and twirled one of the long tendrils of her dark brown hair hanging from her ponytail.
“Don’t you want a life one day? What about marriage and kids?�
� he asked as he followed her into the sunny yellow kitchen at the end of the hallway.
She went to the white-tiled countertop and opened a pine-stained cabinet above her. “I want those things, but right now….” Her voice trailed off as she reached for a blue mug.
The spacious kitchen had an antique stove against the far wall by the double sink, and an old refrigerator sputtering away in the corner by a small breakfast table. A wide cypress door to the right of the table revealed a deep walk-in pantry. On the opposite side of the kitchen, a butler’s entrance led to the mahogany-paneled dining room. The ancient fluorescent lights above flickered on and off as Kyle walked across the room to Jazzmyn.
“I guess right now you’d rather work sixty hours a week at the restaurant and spend everything you make keeping this old house going out of some sense of duty. Between the taxes and the upkeep, this place has eaten up every penny you earn. With this floundering economy and bleak circumstances in the city since Hurricane Katrina, I’ve often found myself wondering how much longer you can hold on to this piece of your family history.” He waved his hand about the kitchen.
Jazzmyn handed him the blue mug. “As long as I can. If my chef wasn’t so damn temperamental and continually asking for a raise, I might be able to save some money at the restaurant. Then I could make a few repairs around here.”
Kyle took the mug from her, frowning. “I’m not temperamental. I’m a very talented chef that every restaurant in the city would kill to have, but I choose to stay with you.”
“Why stay with me? All we do is argue about menus and costs.”
Kyle eased closer to her. “You know why I stay,” he whispered, letting his eyes linger over her high cheekbones and slender nose.
Jazzmyn took a step back from him. “That was a long time ago. One drunk night that neither one of us can remember is no reason to stay with my restaurant, Kyle.”
He shook his head. “We weren’t drunk.”
“It was a mistake, and you promised you would never mention it again.”
“I know what I promised, but do you ever think about it, Jazz? Don’t you ever wonder if maybe it wasn’t a mistake?”
She became distracted by their reflection in the stainless refrigerator door, and wondered if the couple she saw before her was really meant to be together. When she raised her eyes to Kyle, he was drinking in every detail of her face. Jazzmyn nervously tugged at the lapels on her robe, feeling vulnerable behind the flimsy material.
He quickly directed his gaze to the old linoleum floor. “Perhaps you should get dressed, before we are both late.”
Jazzmyn headed to the kitchen entrance. “You know you don’t have to keep taking me to and from the restaurant. It’s only a few blocks. I can walk.”
Kyle eyed the blue mug in his hand. “It’s not safe, especially at night. I wouldn’t want anything happening to my boss.”
Jazzmyn stopped at the entrance and nodded to the coffee maker on the counter. “Get your coffee. I made the mocha blend you like so much.” Then she quickly started down the hall at a slight jog.
“How much longer are you going to torture yourself like this?” she muttered as she headed up the stairs.
***
The Sweet Note Bistro was located a few blocks from Jazzmyn’s home on Magazine and Fourth Streets. The corner eatery occupied the lower floor of a renovated two-story warehouse with a first floor façade composed of large picture windows surrounded by painted brick. The second floor was home to the landlord, Mrs. Millie Herron. Mrs. Herron had painted the building a deep shade of blue, with white stars decorating the sidewalk around the restaurant entrance.
Kyle looked down at the stars on the ground as he reached for the long brass handle on the front door. “You think the old bat upstairs would have gotten rid of these by now.”
Jazzmyn stepped through the open door. “Not in a million years. She claims her psychic told her the stars would bring us luck.”
Kyle shook his head. “I always knew Mrs. Herron was a screwball.”
Inside, Jazzmyn stopped and took in the large dining room with its peach plaster walls decorated with various jazz instruments and black musical notes interspersed throughout. In the blue ceiling, dozens of tiny droplights were mounted to make the room appear as if shining stars up in the sky were illuminating it. Waiting for customers on the dark maroon cement floor were rows of worn wooden tables and matching deep brown wooden chairs.
Kyle walked past Jazzmyn to the oak bar located to the right of the doorway. “Mrs. Herron obviously doesn’t know there’s a recession on. All her magic stars aren’t going to improve business.” He made his way around to the side of the bar, lifted a service panel in the center, and stepped behind it.
Jazzmyn cringed as he pulled a glass from the rack behind the bar and then reached for a bottle of Jack Daniels.
“Kind of early for that, isn’t it?”
Kyle gazed into her dark green eyes. “No. It’s almost ten, and you know I like to have something before I start the lunch menu.” He placed the glass on the bar.
Jazzmyn let out an exasperated sigh. “But I thought you said you were going to give up drinking.”
Kyle began to pour some of the deep brown liquid into the glass. “Do you want a crappy lunch?”
“Of course not.”
Kyle finished pouring out the whiskey and placed the bottle on the bar. “Then stop nagging me about my drinking.”
Jazzmyn eased back from the bar. “Sorry. Far be it from me to question your methods for culinary inspiration.”
“Are you gonna let that boy drink himself into a stupor again, Jazzmyn?” a deep, throaty voice inquired from the kitchen entrance.
Jazzmyn looked up to see an older woman with coffee-colored skin and warm brown eyes watching her from the kitchen doorway. She was short and wide, with curly black and silver hair, and a slender, almost delicate face. A white apron, stained with various colors of green, red, brown, and yellow, covered her thick body.
“I’m not drinking myself into a stupor, Ms. Helen,” Kyle argued. “One drink does not a stupor make.”
Ms. Helen waddled closer to the bar. “You start with one and then work up to two and then three.” She pointed her finger at him. “Then you get stupid, and I got to finish cookin’ the lunch rush.” Ms. Helen turned to Jazzmyn. “You know better than to let him behind the bar, girl.”
“How can I stop him?” Jazzmyn waved her hand at Kyle. “You know how he is.”
“You got all the morning prep done?” Kyle snapped.
“I got it done. When ain’t I got it done? And don’t you go and be pullin’ no sassy attitude with me, boy. I may be just a cook ‘round here, but I know a hell of a lot more than your skinny ass about food.”
Kyle indignantly gestured to Ms. Helen as he glared at Jazzmyn. “Are you going to let her talk to your chef that way?”
Jazzmyn rolled her eyes. “I really don’t need the two of you going at each other this early. We haven’t even opened yet.” She took a step toward the kitchen door. “I’m going to my office.”
Ms. Helen motioned to Jazzmyn. “You look pretty in that,” Ms. Helen remarked, noting Jazzmyn’s black trousers and white cowl-neck sweater. Ms. Helen came closer and scrutinized her face. “You put makeup on, child?”
Jazzmyn gave Ms. Helen a dismissive shrug. “Just a little.”
“Since when you put lipstick, blush, and mascara on, Jazzmyn? You never wore makeup in the past to greet the diners. Or are you expectin’ someone special again tonight?”
Jazzmyn began pulling nervously on her brown leather purse strap while avoiding Ms. Helen’s inquisitive gaze. “No, I just felt like putting on makeup.”
Ms. Helen turned to Kyle, who was nursing the glass of Jack Daniel’s in his hand. She nodded to his drink. “Is that why you needed a drink this mornin’? ‘Cause you know who she got all dolled up for, don’t you?”
“I told you I didn’t get ‘dolled up’ for anyone,” Jazzmyn insis
ted.
Kyle never looked up from his whiskey. “We know better, Jazz. Let’s just hope he doesn’t come tonight.”
Ms. Helen crossed her arms over her chest. “He’ll come. The way that man looks at her makes it real obvious what he’s thinkin’.”
“Jesus, Ms. Helen,” Jazzmyn admonished. “It’s not like that.”
Ms. Helen moved closer to the bar. “Of course it is, Jazzmyn. Why else you think he hangs out here? He’s after you.”
Kyle rolled the old-fashioned glass around in his hand. “That’s just what I needed to hear. Thanks, Ms. Helen.”
Ms. Helen snorted with impatience. “I don’t see you doin’ nothin’ to stop it.” She leaned across the bar and wrestled the glass from Kyle’s hand. “That crap ain’t gonna help you, son.” She smacked the drink down on the opposite side of the bar from Kyle. “You gonna let somethin’ slip through your fingers ‘cause you keep hidin’ behind a bottle?”
Kyle fixed his blue eyes to Jazzmyn. “I don’t have much say in the matter, now do I? It seems Jazz has already made her choice.” Kyle rested his elbow against the bar and frowned at her. “What do you see in him, anyway?”
When Jazzmyn opened her mouth to reply, Ms. Helen’s raucous cackle reverberated throughout the large dining room.
“He ain’t some drunk chef runnin’ behind her hopin’ to be noticed. He’s goin’ after her…just like you should be goin’ after her,” Ms. Helen scolded.
“Ms. Helen, please, don’t start that again,” Jazzmyn implored.
Kyle reached across the bar and picked up his drink. “Yeah, Ms. Helen, spare us your motherly concern.” He raised the glass to his lips.
Ms. Helen shook her head. “You better shape up boy, or you’re gonna lose a lot more than your liver.”
Kyle said nothing and emptied the contents of the glass in one sip.
Disgusted by Kyle’s display, Jazzmyn turned from the bar and headed toward the kitchen. She cursed under her breath as she angrily shoved the black kitchen door open. Her day was already off to a wonderful start.
Chapter 2
The Satyr's Curse (The Satyr's Curse Series Book 1) Page 1
