by Beth Moore
“Why are you freaking out?”
This time Jade’s emotions permeated her pores. With uncharacteristic volume, she blurted out, “What do you mean, why am I freaking out?”
A woman at a nearby table shot them a glance, but the gentleman with her was more concerned with his empty glass and shook his ice annoyingly. Jillian was probably out of time since the waiter who’d agreed to cover for her was nowhere in sight. She got up, grabbed a pitcher of blackberry tea, poured the customer a refill, threw in some fresh mint, and picked up a credit card from a corner table.
When she slid back into the chair opposite Jade, her mother said, “Jillian, I dropped by here today to surprise you. I wasn’t looking for you to surprise me. You tell me you’ve heard from the Wicked Witch of the South and that Rafe is dead and some stranger has your personal contact information, and you want to know why I’m unnerved?”
“I know. I get it. Can’t we just talk about it? I need to sort it out. Don’t you?”
“No. Actually, I don’t. You’re not telling me you’re upset over this, are you? Are you suddenly all grieved over him?”
“Are you kidding? I have zero feelings for the man. But it’s a little intriguing, don’t you think? I mean, a few days in New Orleans? I haven’t been since I was a little kid. I have a few vacation days. If you did, too, maybe we could go together and you could show me where I—”
“We?” Jade stood up from the table, grabbed her purse, and pulled the strap over her head to her left shoulder. “I am not going to New Orleans. And if you know what’s good for you, neither are you.” She placed both palms on the table, leaned forward, and spoke in a whisper. “Anyway, how is Vince going to feel about all of this? Since when is he going to let you that far out of his sight?”
That one hit home. Vince owned Sigmund’s. At this point, Vince basically owned Jillian. He’d hired her a year ago, and not long after that, they began seeing each other on the side. Those were the good days. He’d talked her into moving in with him about two months ago, but at work, he still acted like he hardly knew her. He said it was to keep things professional.
Jillian hadn’t had to deliberate for long when he first suggested she move in. It was so nice to have someone take care of her for a change. She’d felt like an adult all her life. Vince was ten years older, established and confident, and the idea of not being stressed over money was as big a lure as the man himself. Her mom understood how lucky she was. The guy was way out of her league. He was gorgeous and loaded with cash and could have anyone he wanted. He’d chosen her, and she needed him to keep choosing her.
“Are you listening to me?” Jade’s tone softened a little as she lifted Jillian’s chin with her fingertips. “Answer me. Would Vince mind you going to New Orleans?”
“He’s out of town for a few days trying to close a deal for a location in Los Angeles. Why would he care? And anyway, he’s been so aloof, he probably wouldn’t know I was missing even if he was home.”
“Jillian, don’t risk what you have here for those backward people. They aren’t worth it. They’ll poison you.”
“But he’s dead.”
“That’s just it. He’s been dead to you for nearly two decades. He had nothing to give you. Never even tried. He was a total loser in every way.”
“I know he was,” Jillian responded, standing. “You’ve got to go and I’ve got to get back to work.” She stepped around the table and hugged Jade. “Thanks so much for dropping by. I was so happy to see you walk through the door.”
Jade returned the embrace and whispered in Jillian’s ear. “You don’t owe those people anything. Put yourself first. Your future needs to be with Vince. If I were you, I’d hang on to him at all costs.”
When they let go of one another, a few strands of Jillian’s hair got caught in Jade’s sunglasses. “Oops! Sorry about that, honey!”
“No problem.” When Jade turned to wave good-bye, Jillian caught a glimpse of her own black hair plucked by the roots and sprouting from the hinge of her mother’s shades. In a way Jillian couldn’t exactly explain, something about the sight seemed fitting.
Jillian sighed as she cleared her mom’s half-empty cup from the patio table. Jade was probably right. She would be an idiot to risk a conflict with Vince to fly halfway across the country to bury a man she didn’t know. A man she couldn’t care less about.
When she grabbed her apron from behind the bar, one of the other waiters piped up. “I can’t believe that was your mom. I guarantee you my mom doesn’t look like that. She looks more like your sister.”
“Yep. I get that a lot.”
“You must look more like your dad.”
This was a mistake, Jillian thought for the fifteenth time since boarding the plane. The dead meant nothing to her. All she wanted was Vince’s attention—and she got it just long enough for him to twist into a tornadic rage. She’d tried to call him during her hour layover in Houston but he hadn’t answered. She knew he wouldn’t.
The pilot announced their final descent and asked the flight attendants to take their seats. From the middle seat, Jillian craned her neck to see the edge of the city from the window. She felt panic rise like poisonous floodwaters all the way from her feet to her throat. When the wheels bounced onto the runway at Louis Armstrong, she pressed her feet to the floor like she was slamming on the brakes. She knew what she had to do. She had to go straight to a ticket counter and book the next flight back.
“I can get you to Houston today, but I may not be able to get you back to San Francisco. The flight’s already delayed and may be canceled. They’re expecting a serious late-afternoon fog to roll in.” The woman’s fingernails kept clicking on the computer keyboard the whole time she addressed Jillian. “Want to go to Houston? You could stay for the night and catch a flight out tomorrow. But I’ll need your credit card. There’s a charge to change your flight.”
Jillian’s heart sank. What if her grandmother didn’t reimburse her after all? And why should she if Jillian didn’t even bother to show up? “Thanks anyway.” She threw the strap of her carry-on over her shoulder and headed down the terminal with tears burning in her eyes. As she took the escalator down to baggage claim, she panned the crowd for anyone who might be looking for her. Not that she would recognize her grandmother even if she tripped over her broomstick and tumbled into her lap.
“Miss Slater?”
Jillian jumped. Standing beside her was a chocolate-brown woman of medium stature and middle years, with a white, toothy smile that swung from the east to the west. Her eyes were dark and bright at the same time and full of mischief.
“Hey. Yeah, I’m Jillian Slater. And you . . . well, you are not my grandmother.”
“You are mighty right about that, young lady, but I am about to stick you in my chariot and drive you to her. Anyway, you’re safer with me behind the wheel.” The woman pitched back her head and laughed and then reached forward to give Jillian a proper handshake. “I’m Adella. We met on the phone. For a minute there, I was afraid you’d backed out.”
Jillian fought the urge to say, “I tried.” Instead, “You work for her, right?”
“Yes, ma’am, I do and have for going on eight years. She and I do right well together. I run that big old house of hers and manage the tenants. My sons are thankful. They say it keeps me from managing them as much as I’d have a mind to. My mama claims I was born bossy. That one bag all you’ve got?”
“Yeah, this is it. I’m only staying the two days.”
“Well, women from the South have been known to average about one large piece of luggage a day. I’d say you’re traveling light. That’s good then.”
“Oh. Well, not me. Not from the South.”
Adella looked like she might be inclined to argue that point, but all she said was “Come on. Help me find my car. It’s somewhere over there. It’s the silver economy.”
Jillian attempted a weak smile as she cased the overstuffed parking lot. Only about twenty cars in close e
yeshot fit that description.
After finding the right car, Adella made several stabs at light conversation as they navigated the traffic, but Jillian put on her sunglasses and hoped her driver would take the hint.
The farther they drove from the airport, the more magnificent the houses became. The thick two- and three-story columns, the ornate European trim, and the vast porches were like pages turning in a pop-up history book as they drove quickly past. Many of the houses had clearly withstood the ambitions of modern architecture and the ire of Gulf winds for well over a century. Some of the live oaks arching over them must have been six and seven times their seniors, lurching up from trunks wider than a woman is tall.
The longer they drove, the closer Jillian drew to the window. Her nose was nearly pressed to the glass. She’d landed on another planet. That much was certain. And it was hot.
After what felt like next to forever, Adella finally pulled over. The tires squeaked and squealed along the curb, bumping up and over and back down before she came to a stop. With a jolt. Alarmed, Jillian pulled off her sunglasses and said, “Where are we? Why are we stopping here?”
Adella opened her car door and glanced back in at her, looking puzzled. “This is it!”
“But this is a church.”
“No,” Adella responded, “this used to be a church. It’s a house now. Has been for years. Renters live here—three right now. And of course your grandmother, who owns the building.”
Jillian shoved her glasses up the bridge of her nose and pulled her bag close to her chest. No way was she going into that place, whatever Adella wanted to call it.
The woman circled around the car and headed toward Jillian’s door. She paused at the curb for a moment, obviously waiting for Jillian to open it. “In your dreams,” she whispered under her breath. When Adella reached for the handle to open it herself, Jillian locked the door. Adella threw her hands onto her hips, tilted her head, and gave her a look that suggested she might consider growing up. Exasperated, Jillian hit the button and unlocked the door.
Adella opened it and swung out her left hand. “After you, my dear.”
“This isn’t a house.”
“It is a house. Or an apartment building, anyway. If you take one step inside the door and spy a pulpit, I promise to drive you right back to the airport. Deal?”
Jillian slammed the door harder than she really meant to.
CHAPTER 3
SPARING THE ORIGINAL FRONT DOORS of Saint Sans had come at no small price. Even after considerable refinishing, the wet heat kept them swollen all summer, and an ample arm was required to open them. The renters and more familiar guests opted to bypass the wrestling match and head straight for the back. The dramatic effect of the building, however, was woefully diminished by entering through the back, and right about now, Adella was looking for enough drama to make a twenty-five-year-old snob glad she’d shown up.
Jillian stepped through the front door, and instead of feasting her lucky eyes on the startling collection of antiques, she gawked at the gargantuan stained-glass window on the upper back wall, which had at one time been the front of the chapel. She looked squarely back at Adella like she’d been kidnapped. Adella cased the giant room, trying to see it through her reluctant traveler’s eyes.
As house manager, she’d grown so accustomed to treating Saint Sans as a business that she’d let herself lose sight of what, with fresh eyes, was a rather glaring history. The leaded glass depicted a wind-tossed wave, the tip of a boat, and Jesus robed and standing on the water, his hand extended to Peter. When the room was shadowy, the scene brooded with the dark pigment of fear, but let a beam of the sun catch it just right, and faith would find its feet.
They could have used more sun that day.
Of the actual furnishings, only a few pieces were distinctly ecclesiastical, and all of them had been repurposed. In fact, the organ was the only other giveaway to the untrained eye, and if Jillian had a trained eye for church wares, Adella was a little green man from Mars.
The pine altar still had its original white marble top, but the sterling tea and coffee service captivated most of the attention. And what little was left for the taking, the china cups and saucers robbed blind. The parson’s bench just inside the front door looked like a regular settee, and the baptismal font was out on the back porch with a fern growing in it.
“Well, do you see a pulpit anywhere?”
If a look could cause a kidney stone, Adella would have doubled over.
“As you can imagine, the shape of this room might have made an adequate sanctuary a century ago, but it was a nightmare of a great room. Hard as petrified wood to furnish.”
“Why? Because it’s shaped like a big coffin?”
“Girl, what are you talking about? Haven’t you ever been in a church shaped like this before?”
“You said it wasn’t a church.”
So it was going to be like this, was it? Adella fought the urge to ask if Jillian had been raised by hyenas. Instead, she’d take the high road, ignore the girl’s insolence, and get her revenge by giving a less abridged version of the tour. “The fireplace and mantel were added, of course, when Saint Sans was refurbished as a house. It’s limestone. Impressive, isn’t it?” And it was. Placed in the center of the long wall along the left side of the room, it was seven feet wide at the base and the hearth jutted out two and a half feet. Three or four people at a time could sit on it, and when it was cold enough outside to build a fire, many a cup of hot cocoa had been consumed right there. The limestone blocks were stacked all the way to the ceiling, providing the central attraction in the oblong room.
The problem with a den of these dimensions was the necessity of arranging three stations, one right after the other, and on a hardwood floor. Just inside the front door was a couch so gloriously comfortable that, once you sat down, you couldn’t soon stand up. And when you did, you were liable to need help. They called it the Snapdragon because it had a way of swallowing its happy victims whole. A dark-brown leather recliner was to one side of it and a deep-red overstuffed chair with an ottoman to the other, all on one Persian rug.
The fireplace and its surroundings comprised the second, central station, the most formal, with wing chairs, a delicate antique love seat, two tables and lamps, all on a second spacious rug.
Deepest in the room, on the left, was a long dining table that seated eight. A late arrival, of course. Once upon a time, congregants had probably been fed with the Word and the elements from a dark wooden lectern right there. With the remodel, a generous kitchen had been built along the right wall, across from what was now the dining area.
“Afternoon, Adella. Who’ve you got there?” It was David, coming in through the back door.
Startled by the sight of him, Adella glanced at her watch. “Are you home already? It can’t be that late!”
David Jacobs had rented apartment 2A for the better part of Adella’s tenure as manager. The man was the consummate tenant. His rent was automatically withdrawn from his bank account on the first of every month. He complained little, lived rather quietly, and was meticulous with his grooming and his belongings. Adella tended to think most folks were half-crazy and sanity simply meant you spent more time living out of the other half. As far as she could tell, David kept his mad side mostly to himself.
He had a highly evolved palate for fine art and antiquities without an equally evolved budget. Never married and nearly forty, he said that he found the surroundings of Saint Sans altogether worth squeezing himself into little more than a one-room dwelling with a kitchenette. In Adella’s opinion, if Jillian had a fraction of David’s taste, she’d have seen that Saint Sans was a veritable museum. All the renters got to enjoy the main room, even to entertain guests on occasion, as long as the other residents weren’t put out. They could use the large kitchen freely—first come, first served—as long as they used their own food and left the counters cleaner than they found them.
The young woman walked over
to David and extended her hand, taking Adella by complete surprise. “Hey, I’m Jillian.” It was the girl’s first sign of life in fifteen minutes. David was obviously less alien to Jillian than Adella and this church-turned-house.
“Oh, goodness, where are my manners? David Jacobs, this is Jillian Slater. She’s from California and she’ll be staying with us a couple of days. Jillian, David teaches music at the biggest public high school in this district. He’s a talented—”
“Nice to meet you,” Jillian interrupted.
“Likewise. Do tell me what part of California. The coast?” And they were off to their own tête-à-tête as if Adella had fallen through a trapdoor. Not a bad idea. She felt queasy. Time was running thin and she knew it. She pulled her phone out of her purse and looked at it hoping someone with a hint of empathy might call her with an exit strategy.
“Are you going to the burial?” Jillian’s question to David nearly jolted the sense out of Adella, but he responded before she could think exactly how to hijack it. Clearly she could have used a few more days to work out the kinks.
“Burial? I’m sorry. I don’t know what you mean. What burial?”
At that moment, Jillian jumped like she’d stepped on a live wire. Her eyes shot to the floor. With one foot still wrapped around the other ankle, she offered a bare explanation. “Sorry. I don’t like cats.”
Clementine had appeared on the scene. That blasted cat could mean only one thing.
“Adella?”
At the sound of that familiar voice, Adella’s stomach lurched into her throat. Every pair of eyes except hers darted toward the hallway opposite the apartment wing. Adella’s mind spun like a wobbling top, but she turned around in slow motion, trying to buy a few extra seconds and get control of her expression. How long exactly had the woman been standing there? She wasn’t due home for almost an hour.
Everyone in the den seemed bound and gagged, so David played the gentleman. “Mrs. Fontaine, it’s good to see you. I haven’t run into you in the last several days. I thought maybe you’d gone out of town, but I’d seen the car. But then again, I hadn’t seen you out on the grounds. Of course, it’s so hot. I thought maybe you’d flown somewhere. Are you well?” David didn’t usually talk so much, or at least quite so fast. He was acting like a kid who’d been caught cheating on a spelling test. Adella took it as a moment’s mercy and left him to fry while she scrambled for words.
