by Linda Joyce
Chapter 4
“Yes, I promise. No, I’m not lying. While I’ve been working on the songs for the tour, I’ve also practiced the songs you requested for Momma and Daddy’s party. It will be a memorable thirty-fifth wedding anniversary.”
Barefooted, Nola paced back and forth in the courtyard of her New Orleans apartment. Early morning coolness from the brick seeped into her feet and invigorated her pace. She lengthened her stride and walked circles around the courtyard pool. A turquoise and white cotton caftan brushed against her legs creating a sensual sensation of freedom. But the feeling chafed against the bonds of family tradition. Fleur de Lis represented security. A home to always return to, but the rules…they squelched creativity. She wasn’t a proper southern miss like her sister. Bossy Biloxi carried her Keeper of Fleur de Lis role with aplomb, while Nola had forged her own path.
Stopping abruptly, Nola shook out her hair and wiggled her shoulders, hoping her sister’s imaginary death grip would release its far-reaching grasp. They’d gone over the details just yesterday after the bridal show. Her patience with Biloxi was paper-thin. She sighed. “Most of the songs you picked aren’t my genre, but… I’ll make it memorable.”
“In a good way, I hope. Everyone’s putting their talents to use. We’re counting on you and yours.”
“Yeah. Yeah.” She waved at Kayla Arceneau entering the courtyard with two cups in hand. Rarely did she see her friend out of a white chef’s coat and black slacks. But it was Monday, the only day of the week the restaurant closed. Kayla appeared relaxed in faded jeans and purple t-shirt with a fleur de lis in glittery gold.
“I’ve got to go,” Nola told her sister as her neighbor began his morning trumpet practice before catching the streetcar for work. “I have a voice student arriving.” She ended the call. It amazed her how easily lies slipped from her lips these days. Somewhere in heaven, an angel put another mark under the “lies” column on the scorecard of good and bad deeds all the while shaking his head.
Little white lies don’t count if no one gets hurt.
“How’s the tour pulling together?” Kayla sauntered toward her like a graceful giraffe. Tall, golden blonde, and long-legged.
“Pretty good, I guess. I’m not going to sweat the small stuff. The manager is paid to worry. I just show up on schedule. Everything works out in the end. My responsibility is to sing my best.” Nola looked up to meet Kayla’s gaze.
“So, you met my brother at Fleur de Lis.” Kayla handed over a white cup with a famous New Orleans coffee company logo. Nola sniffed the aroma filling her senses and willed the muscles in her shoulders to relax.
“And before you ask,” Kayla continued, “it’s decaf, skinny mocha. I made sure they didn’t slip up and give you real coffee this time. How you don’t drink caffeine and go all day and most of the night is beyond me. Bitch.”
“Caffeine gives me nightmares. As you know.” She raised an eyebrow to make her point and flashed an ornate silver cross dangling from a silver chain around her neck.
“I thought it was a joke when you called screaming in the middle of the night about vampires taking over New Orleans.”
“You hung up on me!” Nola hadn’t yet forgiven her.
Kayla grunted. “Hey now. I answered the phone. I did give you advice.”
“Butcher. Baker. Candlestick maker,” Nola snarled.
“That’s the best you’ve got? Geez, you swear like a nun. You really are a Damn-Good-Catholic girl. Anyway, I’m a caffeine junkie. I admit it. The smell of coffee wakes me up daily. The only thing I need a man for—besides the obvious tension reliever in the bedroom, and you need to give me a gold star for not saying the f-word—is to bring me dark roasted brew in bed every morning.” Kayla grinned as a dreamy expression settled on her face.
“Bring your caffeinated self over here, you junkie, you.” Nola pointed to the edge of the pool. After taking a big sip, she set her cup on the brick patio, then hiked up the caftan to her knees, and sat, her legs dangling in the barely warm water. “And, no, I didn’t meet the famous Rex Arceneau.”
Kayla sat facing her, legs folded cross-legged. “No? Hmm, I thought you had. Rex is being heavy-handed about cutting expenses. Shit. I had hoped if he heard you sing, he might understand why we need you.”
“Your brother came to the Bridal Extravaganza?”
“Yep, he arrived unexpectedly, just to shame me—his preferred method of control. I thought the two of you had met.”
Nola shook her head. “Unless he was in the audience when I sang one of the days, he didn’t introduce himself to me.”
“Funny. He described you down to the shoes you wore.”
“He probably saw my picture somewhere.”
“The navy-blue dress is a new one. The $29.99 special. Remember, I helped you shop for it at that consignment store.” After taking a long, slow sip of coffee, she added, “He always has a way of getting under my skin. He’s got this all-knowing sense, or he has spies or something.”
Nola added up the details her friend provided. “Did he have on a dark peacock-blue suit? Pink tie and pocket square? Looking fine, but like he could be somebody’s pimp?” The image of the man with the hypnotic steely blue-gray eyes made her pulse quicken. But the rapid spike tumbled as she finished the sum of the equation.
That was Kayla’s older brother?
She sipped her coffee, waiting for her friend to say more. Was he like a corporate seagull? An influential person who dropped in, crapped all over everyone, and then flew away—in his case, back to New York City. Back to his glamourous restauranteur life as the managing partner of a group owning three prestigious locations. Yes, she’d read up on him after the way Kayla had waxed gloriously about his success. But what she really wanted to know was if the man was a good kisser…not that his sister would have any intel on that.
“So you did meet him. He did a photo shoot for New Orleans Eats magazine before hightailing out to Fleur de Lis to catch me in the act. The magazine stylist selected the outfit for him, and the tailor insisted he keep it, or so he said. Something about the color being a new trend for grooms.”
“I didn’t know pimps were getting married these days.”
Her trumpet-playing neighbor hit a smooth high note. Nola applauded while keeping her gaze fixed on her friend.
Kayla narrowed her eyes. “I’ll admit he’s being an ass, but he’s still my big brother. He’s always looking out for me.”
“I didn’t meet him.” Nola leaned over, and with her hands cupped, scooped up some water from the pool, flicking it at Kayla. “Wake up. He’s not your big brother. He may be your older brother, but he’s your business partner. Absent one at that. What gives him the right—”
“He owns the lion’s share.” Kayla shook her head. “The last time Papa talked to me about ownership, he, Rex, and I each owned the business as equals. That conversation took place when I turned eighteen. I assumed Papa would leave the restaurant to both of us equally.” A sad resignation tinged her words.
“Even though Rex doesn’t do anything?”
Kayla rolled her eyes. “He’s still an Arceneau. He helps from afar. And I just learned Uncle Henri owns ten percent of the restaurant. I’m not sure how he finagled that. And Papa left fifty percent to Rex, making him the largest percentage holder. The worst part—I need him here. Not in New York City. He’s an excellent chef. Creative. I’m a chef, but my talents are more sugar based. How do I get him to stay on? Again. F-me.”
“That sucks duck eggs.” Nola shook her head in disbelief. All Kayla’s dream to take the restaurant to the next level, along with a remodel, had to be crumbling.
“Watch that mouth, sister. The fans of Nola Belle think she’s a classy dame.”
“And Nola Belle is. However, she is only one part of me.”
“I don’t know why Papa did what he did…sadly, I’m here to say, my business partner’s plan will impact you, too.”
“How?” Nola fixed her stare on Kayla as he
r mind whirled with one threatening scenario after another. A shadow of fear made her shudder. She’d worked hard at juggling many plates in the air to help her special project. If one plate wobbled too much, the whole set could come crashing down.
“It’s not personal, ya know. He says we’re paying you too much. While we regroup, reorganize, and slightly rebrand, music has to go.”
The trumpet player blew a loud, sharp note off-key.
Nola blinked. The man with the hypnotic steely blue-gray eyes just bypassed the silver cross around her neck and drove a stake through her heart.
The sound of plates crashing rang in her ears.
****
Morning light slanted through blinds covering the single window in the third-floor office above the restaurant. Rex leaned back in a leather, executive-office chair, rested his feet on the desktop, and pretended to inspect his black Salvatore Ferragamo loafers. Moving his hands behind his head, he didn’t want his uncle to mistake, not even for a second, who was in charge as the executor of Papa’s estate. Not Kayla. Not Uncle Henri, but him. Xavier Rex Arceneau. “You want to buy me out.” He flicked a piece of invisible lint from his gray Italian-wool slacks.
“I had discussed this plan with your papa before he passed. We never got around to finalizing the paperwork.” Uncle Henri removed his sport coat and then settled back in the upholstered wingback chair. He looked younger than his nearly sixty-five years despite the silvery gray of his hair. Maybe his youthfulness came from spending a day every week on his fishing boat. All that sunshine gave him a glowing tan. Then he loosened the knot of his tie. The light caught the gold rim of his cuff link drawing Rex’s attention like a spotlight.
How did he get those?
Later, he would have yet another talk with Kayla, but this time if she lied, he would pin her to the freezer door with a stare and browbeat the truth from her. Had she given them to Henri?
“And what will happen to Kayla?”
“She’ll continue on”—he shrugged—“as always.”
“You’ll allow her to run the kitchen? Not just be a pastry chef?”
Uncle Henri paused. “I will do what is best for business.”
“And you want to keep the name of the restaurant?”
“But of course! I’m an Arceneau, too.” Wide-eyed, his uncle leaned forward and locked stares with him—a direct challenge. Warily, Rex sifted through the wave of energy hitting him. His uncle’s bold declaration carried a hidden message of deceit. But which part was he lying about?
To prevent giving away his thoughts, Rex sighed and reached for the documents his uncle had presented. “Cash buyout?”
Uncle Henri nodded, his eyes lighting with eagerness.
“I need time to think about it.”
“My offer is more than fair. It’s generous. You could be on a flight back to New York tonight.”
Time would reveal the truth of the premonition hammering in Rex’s head. But how much time would he need to spend in New Orleans to uncover his uncle’s true intent? Here everything vibrated more intensely. Light glowed brighter. Music sounded richer. Food tasted better. He chuckled. Orgasmic came to mind whenever he looked at a plate of roasted oysters.
An intimacy existed with the city that was hard to explain to any outsider. New York demanded much less for him to survive. There he got lost in the crowd, enjoying anonymity. Yet the sights and scents of New Orleans overwhelmed if he didn’t take care to protect himself energetically.
His mother had passed a tiny portion of her gift of second sight to him, his inheritance, she’d told him. He tried to shut it out, but it wouldn’t be denied—like sometimes knowing when people lied. The benefits of the gift were particularly strong whenever he stayed in New Orleans. For instance, the attraction to Miss Nola Belle haunted him last night. He tuned in to her. She was more than curious about him, felt the attraction, too. The magnetic pull wasn’t something he could act on while she remained on the Arceneau payroll. But he seriously doubted she would consider dinner with him after he cut her from the golden-goose-producing paycheck. A kiss or something more intimate, like a place beside him in bed, could only be a whimsical dream.
“Rex? Daydreaming about what you can do with all the money?”
Rex sighed, picked up the phone, and pressed a button. He would no more reveal his plan than his uncle would admit the truth about his motives.
“Kitchen. Yes, Mr. Arceneau?” Kevin’s voice sounded through the speaker.
“Kevin, please bring two coffees with setups to the office.”
“Would you like some beignets, too?”
“If it’s not inconvenient, that would be nice.” He set the phone back in its cradle.
Uncle Henri nodded. “Beignets are always welcome, and coffee would be good.”
Keeping a steady gaze on his uncle, Rex took in the older man’s body cues, preferring to rely on evidence rather than the interrupting energy of something he didn’t always understand. Being empathic had been a hindrance as much as a gift.
Uncle Henri rose, went to the file cabinet in the corner, and opened the bottom drawer. Rex steadied himself to be passive. The overfamiliarity of his uncle’s knowledge of things in the office triggered a niggling irritation.
“Here it is.” Beaming, he clutched a box displaying the name Rémy Martin XO Excellence.
“Cognac. My father kept alcohol in the office?”
“I gave this to him as a special gift when we signed the papers for my share of the restaurant. After you and I complete our deal, we’ll open the bottle and toast to your father. May my brother’s soul rest in peace. He knows I’ll look after my nephew and niece.”
“I’m curious, Uncle, why you want to bother with Arceneau’s. You have three restaurants, and as you said before, you’ve signed a partnership deal with a celebrity chef to launch a new eatery at the casino. This would make five establishments. What could you want this place for?”
A nearly unperceivable tic flexed in his uncle’s jaw.
“I want to preserve the Arceneau name. This is the longest running business in the family. Kayla will always be involved.”
Lies.
Rex stood. His uncle handed over the box. He set it on the desk and lifted the bottle from inside. A crystal decanter caught the light, and the topper cast rainbows in the room. “You’ve always enjoyed the finest of things in life.”
“Humph. You mean I pilfered money away on extravagances. I know what your father thought of me.”
Rex lifted an eyebrow. “The differences you and my father experienced are none of my business. He’s gone. I won’t discuss him with you in that way.”
A knock sounded at the door.
“Enter.”
One of the sous chef’s apprentices brought in a tray.
Rex slid the expensive bottle to one side, allowing the tray to be placed on his desk.
“Thank you,” Rex called to the young man exiting the office as quickly and quietly as he’d come.
Uncle Henri reached for a cup. “Ahh, coffee with chicory.”
“One of the things I miss when I’m in New York.”
“You’re eager to go back, I’m sure. Let me help you with that. Sign the papers, let’s crack the seal on the bottle, and we’ll conclude our business quickly. In fact, take the bottle with you.” Henri sank into the chair, crossed his legs, resting the cup and saucer on his knee.
Rex studied his uncle and allowed a slow, half grin to rise. “One would think you’re in a New York rush. I prefer to take things slower down here.” He didn’t intend to share his findings from his review of the business accounts or his plan to attract more customers, putting the business back in the black—for Kayla. But first, he had to secure her buy-in about his ideas before investing his own money. “I’ve scheduled some time off to relax. Kayla and I have Papa’s personal estate to deal with.”
“Keeping or selling the house?”
“Why? Do you want to buy that, too?”
Un
cle Henri chuckled. “No, boy. Too much of your mama lives in that house, even after all these years.”
And you were never welcomed there…
“I’ll be staying for a while.” Rex sat and sipped his coffee, savoring a familiar flavor of home. He hadn’t made the decision to stay a while until he’d spoken the words. “I’m looking for some inspirations to carry back to New York—besides I’ve got my eye on something.”
Uncle Henri laughed. “A someone, I’ll bet. A woman, no doubt.”
Rex allowed his smile to widen. “You know me so well.” Except his uncle didn’t know him at all.
They’d rarely been in the same room since his mother had died. After college and then culinary school in New York, he’d stayed. Dealing with his father’s ego and insistence on his French style of cooking didn’t mesh with the newfound independence Rex had discovered up north. There, he couldn’t depend on the family name, wouldn’t be accused of riding his father’s coattails.
Instead, he’d struck out on his own with meager financial support from Papa and built a partnership as well as a reputation in a city known for celebrity chefs.
Thirteen years of hard work.
After finishing his coffee and listening to Uncle Henri catch him up on all the extended family gossip, stories about people, all who had shunned Kayla over the years, he stood. Lucky for him, Henri took the hint.
“Well, Rex, I’ll leave you to think about my offer.” He walked toward the door, but paused and turned. “I should ask Kayla to plan a family reunion. We haven’t held one in a few years.”
“Good luck with that idea.” Rex chuckled.
“Yes, she’s great in the kitchen, but not much of a social hostess.” His tone was wistful, as though he recalled a better time from the past—the gala parties and fundraisers his mother had hosted.
“I’ll be waiting for your answer.” Henri disappeared down the stairs.
Rex placed the crystal decanter on the shelf behind the desk to keep the trigger of his anger in plain sight. He refused to discuss his mother or her life with his uncle. Not after all that had happened. Yet, Uncle Henri was partially right about him, too. He did have his eye on a particular woman, but it wasn’t for the reason Uncle Henri imagined.
