Blue Bayou Final

by Kate, Jiffy

  Maverick’s eyes literally shine as the corners crinkle in delight. “It’s something I’ve thought about, dreamed about, really. But that requires money, something to invest with.”

  I nod, hating that reality isn’t always as easy as our dreams.

  “I keep telling myself that I’ll work a little longer for my father—pay my dues, bide my time—and eventually, I’ll save enough money or my inheritance will kick in and then I’ll be able to do what I want,” he adds. “Then, there’s this part of me that says screw responsibility and logic. It tells me to walk away now before I lose any more of myself in the process.”

  “I’m sure it’s scary,” I tell him. “I know firsthand that it’s terrifying to think about leaving what you’ve always known. I thought about it when my mother died. I thought about selling this place and cutting my losses, but I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t lose my last connection to my family. So, no matter the cost or sacrifice, I’m determined to make this thing work. I don’t need to be rich, I just need to make enough to keep this place afloat and get it back to a place where it’s thriving.”

  We sit in a moment of silence again, while Maverick’s eyes bore into mine, like he’s reaching down into my soul and finding something there he likes, identifies with. It’s unnerving, yet life giving. I’ve never had someone look at me like that—with their whole self, seeing my uncertainties and insecurities and appreciating them.

  “Money isn’t everything,” he murmurs, almost to himself, yet loud enough for me to hear. “It’s one of the things my grandfather wrote in his journal, on more than one page. So, I know it was something he really wanted me to hear. There’s so much more to life than capital gain or status. This place—you, everything about it—is so much more than that.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” I say, now focusing on his lips and loving the way they look as he delivers his words. I want to kiss them. I want him to kiss me. I want to take him to my bedroom and spend time learning what the rest of his body looks like.

  A strange sensation settles inside my chest, a feeling of longing and want, but it goes beyond physical desire. In the short amount of time I’ve known Maverick, which totals about eight days, I’ve found someone who understands me and cares about the things I care about. Looking across the table at him, I’m left with the hope that he’ll always be here—a permanent fixture—but I know that’s not the case. This is all temporary.

  He’s temporary.

  Clearing my throat, I stand up, breaking our silence and whatever moment we were having. As I begin to collect dishes and scurry around my kitchen, I still feel Maverick watching me and it unnerves me, makes my skin tingle and catch fire.

  I want him, of course, I do, but what if a fling isn’t enough?

  Maybe I don’t want that after all?

  “You’re thinking too much,” a low, silky voice says in my ear, catching me off guard and making me drop a plate into the sink with a loud thud. His warm breath on my ear makes my knees weak and I swear my insides literally quiver.

  I’m not sure I had a tangible definition of that word, until now.

  “Uh,” is my only response. Somehow in the last minute I forgot how to form coherent sentences. My body is giving me a green light, telling me to turn around and take this man on my kitchen counter, but my mind is throwing up caution. All sorts of bells and whistles are going off, some because I think I like Maverick more than I’m letting myself admit. So, maybe giving into my body would be easy and fun and so so satisfying, but it might also be the road to heartbreak, and I’m not sure if I’m willing to risk my heart.

  It’s fragile.

  It didn’t used to be, but one can only take so much disappointment and sadness, and I feel like I’ve reached my limit in this life.

  So, instead of melting into Maverick and giving way to desire, I blurt out, “I forgot I’m supposed to help Mary this evening before my shift starts.” The laugh that escapes is nervous and foreign, and I feel Maverick stiffen a little behind me before taking a step back. Finally, I turn to face him, trying to school my features into an expression that won’t give away my innermost thoughts and fears, but it’s too late.

  Maverick is watching me with a contemplative look, mixed with a tinge of disappointment. Letting out a loud sigh, he runs a hand through his hair and scratches at the back of his neck. “Okay,” he concedes. “Guess we better get this kitchen cleaned up.”

  “No, don’t be silly. I invited you to lunch as a thank you, not to have you clean my mess.”

  He watches me for a moment longer, wanting to say something maybe, but refraining. Finally, he dips his head in acknowledgement and takes a step toward the door. “Thank you for lunch and for sharing your macarons.” He says the last word slowly, like he’s letting it play on his tongue or memorizing it.

  “Oh, here.” I scramble for a few of the cookies and quickly put them into a plastic bag. “Take some with you. My grandmother used to make them for all the guests,” I add, for what reason I don’t know, maybe to fill the awkward space that’s suddenly settled around us. “But you already know that...because I told you earlier.” God, I’m making a mess of this whole situation. Mentally, I’m smacking my forehead for being such an idiot and also praying Maverick just takes the cookies and leaves, to save me from myself.

  He looks thoughtfully at me and then the bag, accepting them. “It is really clever, you know? You should consider bringing them back.” With a tight smile, not like the ones I’m used to getting from him, he opens the door and walks out.

  Frustrated with my brain and the fact I can’t just let myself enjoy the moment, I let out a groan and kick the cabinet. Did I seriously just send him away? What the hell is wrong with me?

  Chapter 13

  Maverick

  After the door shuts behind me, I turn around and glare at it. I’m not mad. Disappointed? Maybe. Confused? Definitely. I thought Carys and I were on the same page. I thought our conversation earlier when she walked in on the tail end of my phone call with my father was an understanding between the two of us about what we’re doing. She seemed on-board and now, I don’t know.

  All I know is that I could physically feel her putting up a barrier between us. So, I’ll give her some space. Shit, maybe it’s for the best.

  Not for my dick, but maybe in the long run, because I really like Carys Matthews. I don’t know what that means or what I plan on doing about it. My plans lately haven’t stretched further than the next twenty-four hours. I haven’t thought a lot about leaving and going back to the real world. That was the plan when I came here—forget about work, forget about my father, gain some perspective and figure out what I’m going to do with my life for the next two years.

  Carys was not in those plans.

  Walking back toward the hotel, instead of going inside, I veer right and head down the alley that leads out to the street. I feel the need to clear my head and blow off some steam. One thing I know about New Orleans, there are plenty of opportunities for both.

  I’m not feeling Bourbon Street, so I head toward Jackson Square.

  With my head somewhere else, I nearly get run over by a horse and carriage. “Sorry,” I mutter, pausing long enough for them to pass and then I cross the street.

  One of my favorite things about New Orleans, even when I was younger and I’d come here with my mom and dad, is the colors. It’s like a crayon box exploded. There’s nothing drab or boring. I firmly believe if you’re bored in New Orleans, you’re dead. There are too many things to do to keep your mind, body, and spirit fully engaged.

  Jogging from one corner to the next, I officially enter Jackson Square and step out of the shadow of the cathedral.

  My mom loved this place. I think it’s one of the reasons we came here so often. My dad was always looking for easy ways to keep my mother happy.

  “Beignets for breakfast and dessert.” I can hear her voice so clearly in my mind when I’m at places we shared together.

  “Co
me,” a deep female voice calls. “Let me read your palm.” Her face is warm and inviting, making it hard to turn her down, but I’m not in the mood for any of that voodoo shit. I did it once, on a dare, while I was here with some of my college friends for Mardi Gras one year. Honestly, I was so drunk I couldn’t even remember what the lady told me.

  “No, thanks,” I tell her politely as I keep walking.

  Artists are set up along the fence line, selling their works. Some of it is too eclectic for my taste, but some of it is really great. I’ve never bought any, though. Since I always fly here, I never want to mess with getting a big ass painting home.

  Without thinking, letting my mind wander as I pass people and shops, I end up at the busiest corner, right across from Cafe Du Monde. My mom loved coming here and I think about stopping in, if for nothing else than sentimental reasons, but the place looks packed, so I pass it up and keep walking.

  Once I’m on the other side of the square, the buildings are just in the right position to block some of the sun, giving me a slight reprieve, and a small sign catches my eye: Neutral Grounds. I remember Carys mentioning this place the night we had dinner at Lagniappe, so I stop. Opening the door, a bell chimes and a voice from behind the counter greets me. “Hello! Welcome to Neutral Grounds.”

  A girl with brown hair tossed up on her head in a messy bun finally pops up and smiles at me. Well, not a girl, but a woman, probably mid to late twenties, Carys’ friend, I’m assuming.

  “Hi,” I reply with a two-finger wave, checking the place out as I walk closer to the counter to peruse the menu.

  “Any questions, just let me know.” She’s pretty in a girl-next-door, unassuming kind of way.

  “I’ll, uh...” I pause, taking one more look before ordering. “I’ll have an iced americano.” I decide to go with my standard when I’m trying out a new place. It’s hard to mess up an americano, unless her espresso sucks, but I get the feeling it doesn’t.

  “Sure,” she says, stashing a fresh sleeve of cups on the counter and scooting a box out of her way. “Sorry for the mess. I just got a delivery and if I don’t immediately put it away, it’ll drive me crazy.”

  I laugh at her candor and nod. “I get it.”

  “Are you visiting?” she asks over her shoulder as she starts pulling my shots of liquid gold.

  “Uh, yeah...I’ve been here a little over a week, but I guess I’m still classified as a visitor.” I laugh again, kind of disbelieving I’ve really stayed here that long already. I mean, I intended to when I left home, but I don’t know if I really thought I’d go through with it. I assumed I’d be here for a long weekend and then head back home, letting guilt get the best of me.

  “Oh, well, you’re one of us now. After a few days, we claim as for our own.” She smiles, filling the cup up with ice and securing it with a lid. “Anything else?”

  “That’ll be it.”

  As she’s ringing me up, she continues with her questioning. “So, where are you staying?”

  “Blue Bayou,” I tell her, pointing over my shoulder.

  Her eyes light up. “Really? My friend Carys runs the Bayou. Great place,” she adds as she takes my money and makes change.

  “She mentioned this place, that’s what made me stop.”

  “Sweet, I’ll have to thank her with free coffee.” She smiles again as I stuff her tip jar with my change. “CeCe,” she says, sticking her hand across the counter for me to shake.

  “Maverick,” I counter, appreciating her firm, no-nonsense grip.

  “Nice to meet you. Don’t be a stranger, and if you see Carys, tell her I said hello.”

  I nod. “I will.”

  “Feel free to stay awhile. Soak up all the free A/C you want.”

  “Thanks.”

  I walk around the shop, admiring the artwork on display. There are pottery and ceramic pieces placed among the various bags of coffee beans, mugs, and store merchandise, as well as beautiful, eclectic paintings on the walls. I assume every piece was created by a local artist and I think it’s very cool for CeCe to promote them in her shop.

  “I really like this one,” I say, pointing up to a painting hanging over a shelf.

  “It’s my favorite too, painted by a good friend of mine who’s really made a name for herself. She started out right here in the Quarter, though. Camille Benoit-Landry? Have you heard of her?”

  A small pebble of recognition rolls around in my brain until I remember where I heard it. “Right, somehow related to the owner of Lagniappe?”

  “Yes,” CeCe says with a pleased smile. “See, you are becoming one of us. You already know the locals. Micah, the owner of Lagniappe, is Cami’s brother-in-law. Well, she’s opening an art studio across the square. You probably passed right by it on your way here, but it’s not open yet.” Her openness and willingness to share information and open her doors is something that reminds me of Carys. Actually, those are characteristics of a lot of people who live and work in this city. It’s refreshing.

  “He mentioned that when Carys and I had dinner there the other night.”

  “So, you and Carys had dinner, huh?” she asks, lifting her tone and eyebrows suggestively.

  “Yeah, we did,” I admit, realizing a little too late that Carys might not want me telling her friends about our time together.

  “Well,” CeCe says, suddenly becoming tight-lipped. I can see her mind churning as she looks at me with new interest, like I’ve become an item on her shelf and she’s taking inventory.

  “I, uh, fixed something for her and she wanted to thank me.” Of course, it was me who requested the dinner, but CeCe doesn’t need to know that.

  CeCe nods. “I see.”

  Now it’s my turn to nod and take a large drink of my americano.

  “Carys is good people,” CeCe adds, under the ruse of praising Carys for her hospitality and graciousness, but I’m good at reading between the lines. There’s a warning—a friend looking out for a friend, telling a virtual stranger that he should tread carefully.

  “She is,” I agree, but with my own hidden message: I know how good Carys is, and I’m not here to take advantage of her.

  “I’m sure she appreciates your help. The last year or so has been tough.”

  I nod again, wondering how much I should say. CeCe could be testing me, waiting for me to mess up or tell her how much I know. I won’t be doing either.

  “She seems to have it all under control,” I tell her. “The hotel is great. I’ve really enjoyed my stay there. It’s a nice change from big name hotels, you know?”

  “That’s why I send everyone I know there,” CeCe says, finishing her restocking of shelves and retreating back behind the counter, dusting off her hands on her apron.

  “Well, just know Carys returns the favor. She tells everyone about this place.”

  “We’ve gotta stick together. It’s getting harder and harder to fend off commercial investors from buying up all of the property. They see it as a cash cow, but I hate to break it to them. People come here for the history and authenticity. If they come in here with their shiny, new buildings and chain restaurants and stores, they’ll kill business, and none of us will be making a living.”

  Her words hit a nerve and send my hackles up.

  “We can’t let that happen,” I tell her with casualness and fake levity, because I bet I can guess who one of those commercial investors is who’s been knocking, trying to buy out the locals. That has Kensington Properties written all over it.

  “No, we can’t,” CeCe agrees, her eyes on mine, like she’s still trying to figure me out, but she’s going to be keeping a close eye on me until she does.

  “Thanks for the great cup of coffee,” I tell her, dipping my chin. “It was nice meeting you.”

  For the next few hours, I walk the streets of the French Quarter, passing street performers galore, stopping to be entertained by a few. My favorites are the bands and singers, playing for pennies and dollars, but sounding soulful enough to be i
n the best jazz bars.

  Well, not all of them. There’s the guy standing on the corner of Chartres and St. Louis singing horrible renditions of 80’s ballads. I gave him twenty bucks to not sing until I was far enough gone he could no longer see me. By the time I got to St. Peter, he was bellowing The Greatest Love of All.

  When I turn the corner toward the Blue Bayou, the sun has set and it’s not an embarrassing time to turn in for the night, but I still feel wound up. Even though my feet are tired, my body is still firing on all cylinders. Carys has me so twisted I can’t think straight, and the last thing I want to do is walk back into the hotel and be surrounded by her—her scent, her presence—but I also don’t want to be alone.

  Walking up the sidewalk, I see a familiar face leaving the hotel.

  “Dreamboat,” Jules greets.

  “Jules.” I nod, smirking at the nickname he’s given me.

  “Why so forlorn?” he asks, full of dramatics.

  “I’m not, just tired. I’ve been walking for the past few hours, checking out the Quarter.”

  Jules frowns, inspecting me from head to toe. “That’s no fun.” He pauses for a second, obviously contemplating. “But, you know what is?”

  “I’m guessing you’re going to tell me.” I chuckle, scratching the scruff on my chin.

  “You. Me. Revelry,” he says, gripping my shoulder and waving his hand in the air with dramatic flair. “Come, the girls are gonna love you.”

  It takes longer than I’d like to admit for me to learn that when Jules says “girls”, he does not, in fact, mean actual females. He uses the term to refer to his drag queen friends, and well, everyone else he introduces me to at Club Revelry. Not that I was hoping to meet other women, but a little heads up would’ve been nice.